Why hadn’t Cerridwen protected her?
And immediately the answer vibrated through her brain.
Because, despite whatever Carys had thought, her goddess hadn’t invited her into the realm of the immortals.
“Carys.” Maximus’ tone was urgent and she struggled to focus on his face, and not on the horrifying prospect that she had irretrievably severed the special bond with Cerridwen by her own rash actions.
“Who—who—?” The words wouldn’t articulate. Why hadn’t she known the malignant sensation of being followed, as she’d ridden back to the spiral, was because the Roman legionaries who’d attacked her that morning were tracking her?
“Don’t distress yourself.” His voice vibrated with leashed anger, and yet still his hands were gentle as he continued to caress her.
She tore free of his hold and forced herself to look down her body. The ties at her bodice gaped free and with a strangled gasp she pressed her hands across her exposed cleavage.
Had all three raped her, while she watched Rome rape her entire culture?
And had Maximus come upon them, as she was being so brutally defiled?
Nausea churned at the foul scenario playing through her mind and she squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the world. Blocking out Maximus. How could she not remember any of it? How could she not feel the disgusting aftereffects of such violation?
“He didn’t rape you, Carys. I pulled him from you in time.”
There had been only one.
It was small comfort, for still he’d come upon her without her knowledge, while she had been so certain Cerridwen would ensure her safety.
But it had been Maximus who’d saved her. Maximus who had protected her honor. Relief, regret and revulsion churned, and a lingering aftertaste of the sacred root against her tongue caused her gut to contract. She struggled to the edge of the bed as sweat slicked her skin, feverishly pushing Maximus, but he refused to be pushed.
She gave up. And vomited the contents of her stomach over the floor.
When Aquila finally returned with Branwen, she slunk into the room as if she expected to be eaten. Maximus curbed his irritation and forced a smile.
“I understand you know the lady Carys.”
Branwen’s nervous glance flicked to the bed where Carys slept the sleep of the exhausted, not the enchanted.
When the pause lengthened and it became apparent Branwen wasn’t going to reply, he stepped toward her.
“The lady Carys,” he prompted.
Branwen began to tremble. “No, my lord.”
He refocused his attention, which had strayed to Carys. “What?”
“I don’t know her, my lord.”
He couldn’t believe this shaking excuse for a female had the audacity to lie to his face. “Indeed, I believe you do.”
“The Tribunus Laticlavius wishes you to personally attend to the lady Carys, Branwen.”
Branwen shot another fearful glance at Carys. “I’ll tend to the lady.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Maximus decided to make Carys’ position crystal clear. “The lady is my mistress. She is to be accorded the respect due to her elevated status.”
His words had an unexpected effect. Instead of looking suitably impressed that she had been chosen to attend to his woman, Branwen visibly jerked, as if he’d just imparted a shocking edict. The glare she tossed his way, before dropping her gaze to her feet, smoldered with surprising passion.
What was the matter with her? Anyone would think he’d just insulted Carys, by the way Branwen behaved.
He turned to Aquila. Much as he wanted to stay with Carys, duty called. “Ensure she understands,” he said, reverting to Latin. “I’ll arrange for the door to be repaired, food and drink to be delivered, but no one is to enter until I return.”
Carys stirred, and frowned when she saw Branwen peering at her, her eyes wide and fearful.
“My lady.” Branwen hitched in a sob. “Thank the gods you’re awake.”
Carys glanced around, but there was no sign of Maximus. “What are you doing here, Branwen?”
“The centurion brought me.” A faint blush brushed her cheeks and she avoided eye contact. “But it’s the other one—the Primus, although he’s called something else now—he’s imprisoned you, my lady.”
Branwen sounded so horrified, Carys had to hide a smile. She clasped the younger girl’s hand. “I’m not a prisoner. The Roman saved me from attack.”
“Whatever he did, he plans to dishonor you.” Branwen sank to her knees. “He’s going to use you, our princess, as his mistress.”
Pain tightened her chest. This was why she and Maximus could never have a future together. Her people would never accept his, could never contemplate a noble, a Druid, succumbing willingly to the enemy’s bed.
“I won’t allow myself to be used.” She tugged on Branwen’s hands, urging her to rise. “I can look after myself.”
“You must escape.” Branwen glanced wildly about, as if the means would suddenly appear. “Before he returns.”
“Yes.” It hurt to speak. Hurt to know that, once again, she was running from Maximus when all she wanted was to stay by his side. How many times would a man as proud as he forgive her?
With Branwen’s assistance she stood up, and the room tipped over. She gasped, staggered back, and sat heavily down on the bed again.
“My lady?” Branwen looked petrified. “What—what did the Roman do to you?”
It wasn’t the Roman. She had brought this on herself.
“I haven’t eaten since I broke my fast.” How long ago that seemed. “I can’t go anywhere until I’ve regained my energy.”
After a simple meal of fruits and freshly baked bread, she stood, thankful the world no longer rocked like a boat. It would take her hours to reach the spiral, and the prospect of such a long walk filled her with dread.
Suppose she was attacked yet again? It was unlikely in the extreme Maximus would miraculously appear for a third time to save her honor. The next time, she would have to rely on her skill with her dagger.
Where was her medicine bag? Had it been left at the Cauldron?
She’d have to rescue it first thing in the morning. And since her dagger was in her bag, she picked up the knife she had recently used to eat with. It was sufficiently sharp. It would slice through clothes and flesh with equal ease.
She turned to Branwen. “I want you to do something for me.”
“Anything, my lady.” But fear caused the younger girl’s eyes to widen and voice to tremble.
“It’s a small thing, but important. I want you to promise me that you’ll tell no one I was here today.”
Branwen blinked a couple of times, as if she had expected a far more terrifying command. “Of—of course. Whatever you wish.”
“This can’t become common knowledge. If word reached my fellow Druids, another battle would rage. Do you understand?”
But before Branwen could respond, the door burst open, and Maximus entered.
Chapter 21
For a moment Carys stared at him, as if his appearance completely unnerved her. An unsavory thought skulked through his mind. Had she been planning to leave him, yet again?
“Maximus.” She smiled at him and placed a knife on her plate. The cynical section of his brain noted it made an effective weapon.
He strode toward her, banishing his suspicions. Even if Carys had planned to leave, she certainly couldn’t now.
“You look well.” He took her hands and caressed her knuckles with his thumbs. “How do you feel?”
“Much better.” She responded in Latin and glanced at Branwen, as if uneasy by the girl’s presence.
It didn’t make sense. He knew they were acquainted. It was the reason he’d insisted on the girl in the first place. So that Carys would wake to a familiar face.
But she obviously didn’t want Branwen privy to their conversation, and so he reverted to Latin. “I’ve arranged for domestic help. A cook will arrive later to
prepare our dinner.”
“I’ve just eaten.” She attempted to free her hands.
“Fruits and bread.” He dismissed her recently eaten meal with a jerk of his head before turning to Branwen, who, by the look on her face, appeared in mortal agony.
“That will be all, Branwen,” he said in Celtic. “You may return in the morning to tend to your mistress.”
Both women tensed as if he’d just uttered something outrageous. But neither said a word as Branwen bobbed her head and scurried from the room.
“Why does she pretend not to know you?” He released Carys and began to remove his armor.
“Perhaps she thinks it unsafe to confide in Romans.”
He grunted. “Then she needs to become more proficient at lying.”
“Branwen believes you intend to dishonor me.”
He linked his arms around her waist and pulled her toward him. The scent of her hair reminded him of summer forests. “Is that what you think?”
She slid her hands over his chest and rested them against his shoulders.
“I think,” she said, as her fingers played a seductive tattoo against his shoulder blades, “if you were going to dishonor me, you would have done so already.”
His lips brushed her forehead. He had an erotic encounter planned for Carys tonight, and it didn’t entail taking her while he was sweaty from the day’s exertions.
“You’re safe from abuse now.”
“I was always safe from abuse before.”
Why did she always throw that in his face? Times had changed. She no longer lived in that world where her status as a noble’s daughter protected her from the base lust of man.
He refused to acknowledge the tug of guilt. If his Legion hadn’t conquered Cambria, then another would have.
“By morn, all will be aware you’re my mistress. Any lack of respect shown to you will be a personal affront to me.”
He’d planned on saying more, but the confusion on her face gave him pause. “Do you understand?” He wasn’t sure she did.
“Yes. But I’m not your mistress, Maximus.”
Did she truly have to disagree with every word he uttered? He sighed heavily and attempted to make her see reason.
“It’s the only way I can protect you.”
She opened her mouth, as if to dispute his words. And then a faint blush stole over her cheeks and her gaze wavered.
Instead of triumph at the knowledge she recognized his words as truth, only bitter-tinged regret coursed through his veins. He wound a lock of her hair through his fingers and gave a gentle tug.
“I can’t turn back time. This is all I can do for you.”
“My people won’t view it as a token of respect.” She traced a finger along the line of his jaw. “They’ll only see that—that I’ve been subjugated by the enemy.”
The word grated his bones, offended his sense of honor. He’d made Carys his official mistress today to ensure every Roman knew her worth, accorded her due respect and accepted her position in his life.
He hadn’t considered the feelings of the Celts, since they were of little consequence.
Except they were of consequence. To Carys.
“They’ll soon learn you’re far from subjugated.” Why had she used that word? The more he considered it, the more it irked him. “I doubt you could subjugate yourself to any man, even if your life depended on it.”
“I know that.” She sounded serious, whereas he had spoken half in jest. Then again, she was so proud, perhaps she would rather face death than slavery.
Irrationally the thought pleased him.
“We both know I’m with you because I want to be with you. But as far as Branwen can see, as far as any of my people will see, I’m your prisoner.”
“In that case I’ll arrange for you to be clapped in irons first thing in the morning.”
Instead of smiling, she frowned as if she didn’t think much of his humor. “This is no laughing matter. I didn’t want my people to see this.”
His amusement with their conversation vanished. “Because you’re ashamed to be seen fraternizing with the enemy.”
It was scarcely a revelation. And yet the knowledge scraped through his gut, leaving an odd pain in its wake.
“Ashamed?” Carys’ frown intensified, as if she struggled to comprehend his meaning, and then her face cleared and she sighed. “I should be ashamed of my actions. But I’m not. And.” She hesitated for a brief moment before flicking him a strangely furtive glance. “I know I betray my people every time I come to you, every time I even think of you. But I can’t help it.”
Something, a band of unused muscle perhaps, contracted deep inside his chest, causing a peculiar sense of serenity to seep through his limbs and soothe his brain.
He cradled her jaw. “You’re not betraying your people. In time, Romans and natives will come together as they are in Britannia, as they did in Gallia. It’s the way of the world, Carys.”
Pain shimmered in her unearthly eyes. “It’s the way of the Roman world. While you strip my land of her gold.”
He refused to tell her where they were going. Carys gave up asking and wound a length of linen over her head and across her shoulders.
“There’s no need to cover yourself so.” Maximus sounded irritated, as if he wanted to show her off like a coveted prize.
She hooked a finger into the linen draped across her mouth and pulled it free. “I’ve explained my reasons to you. The least you can do is respect them.”
“It has nothing to do with respect. Sooner or later your people will have to come to terms with your new status. I don’t see why that can’t start now.”
It couldn’t start now because she had no intention of ever letting her people see her with Maximus. The knowledge caused a dull ache deep in her heart but that was something she knew she’d have to learn to live with.
“Not tonight, Maximus.” Her voice was soft. She knew it would take nothing for him to rip the linen from her head, to march her from this dwelling to wherever he wished them to go.
She also knew he never would. Her Roman was strong, proud and honorable and, although she couldn’t explain her conviction, she knew for him to use his physical strength against her would somehow diminish his worth in his own eyes.
His features softened, almost imperceptibly. “Keep your disguise tonight, if it means that much to you.” He tugged the linen across her mouth. “Perhaps it will stop you answering back so readily.”
They walked along the broad main street where earlier that day the markets had flourished. Again she marveled at how swiftly the Romans had constructed such a massive stronghold on her land, a walled town with so many stone buildings she could scarcely believe it.
Gawain was right. They should have stood up to the enemy from the start, not given them time to build this formidable fortification.
But then she would never have met this fascinating, intriguing man by her side.
They stopped outside a large building set back from the road, and Maximus rapped on the door, which was immediately opened.
He ushered her into the dwelling and, despite herself, she couldn’t help admiring the luxurious interior with its polished slab flooring, so different from the home where she had grown up. Did all Romans live in such style?
“Maximus.” A male voice jerked her from her reverie, and she glanced up to see a dark-haired middle-aged man dismiss a slave with a flick of his hand before turning back to them.
“Sir.” Maximus’ fingers tightened around her shoulder, as if he half expected her to flee. Or perhaps he was more concerned she might attack?
She pulled the linen aside and lifted her head, forcing eye contact with this Roman barbarian, and satisfaction stabbed through her as shock rippled over his features.
“My name is Carys of Cymru.” Her Latin was perfect. She’d been taught it from a babe, one of the few requests of her absent father who’d traveled through Gaul as a youth and foresaw the power of articulating t
he encroaching enemy’s language.
The Legatus’s eyes gleamed with appreciation, and before she realized his intention, he took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Carys of Cymru.” His lips brushed her knuckles before he relinquished his hold. “I welcome you into my home.” He continued to look at her, but spoke to Maximus. “Everything is prepared. You won’t be disturbed.”
Maximus wound his arm around her waist as he led her farther into the house. She didn’t want to admire the Roman architecture, but the galling truth was that this home of the conquering Legatus, a home that, less than a year ago, hadn’t even existed, far surpassed her own now-abandoned dwelling that had been in her family for generations.
They entered a small courtyard where a single building stood, with a slave who opened the door at their approach.
Carys stiffened and fumbled for her linen that draped over her shoulders.
“There’s no need to fear,” Maximus whispered against her ear. “All the slaves are from Rome. Your secret remains safe in this house.”
She heard the edge of mockery in his voice but decided to ignore it. “I trust you’re right.” Because if word escaped that she was a willing guest in the home of the Commander of the Legion, the repercussions would be horrific.
“I’m always right.” His breath tickled her ear as he ushered her through the door.
She stumbled over her feet and stared at the vision, speechless with awe. Her tutor had told her of such luxuries, but secretly she always assumed he exaggerated. But he hadn’t. A room, so large she could scarcely comprehend, spread before her with countless lamps flickering and smooth columns soaring to the ceiling.
And taking up a vast expanse of the multicolored, tiny-tiled floor, was a sunken, water-filled lake.
Maximus eased her farther into the bathhouse and shot her a glance. The look of disbelief on her face was priceless.
“Nothing to say?” He hid his amusement, immensely satisfied his surprise appeared to enthrall her.
The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance Page 18