The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance

by Christina Phillips

  What else do I want to know?

  “Have you served in the East?”

  His fingers momentarily stilled, as if he hadn’t expected her to ask such a thing. She had no need to ask such a thing. Yet she wanted to know. Even if knowing made no difference to how this fragile alliance would end.

  Besides, she needed to earn his trust. That way he’d allow her more freedom when they reached Camulodunon. And pretending an interest in his life, encouraging him to talk, was one way of ensuing he lowered his innate suspicion.

  Even if my pretense is false.

  Without warning he began to massage her shoulders, thumbs and fingers kneading her knotted muscles, and waves of delicious pleasure radiated from wherever he touched. Again her eyelids flickered as bliss enveloped her battered body. If he continued so, she wouldn’t need his cock to finish. Gods, how good it felt to have a man’s hands on her once again, and her toes curled against the side of the tub as her neck dropped forward, allowing him the most vulnerable access.

  “I served in the East for a short time.” His warm breath grazed her shoulder. Deep in her mind a warning stirred at how unguarded she was. He could snap her neck with one swift movement and she’d be unable to defend herself. But why would he murder her now, when it was clear she would offer no resistance to his demands? And if brutality was his specialty, he would have raped her back in the forest.

  She was as safe here as she would be anywhere with him.

  “How long have you served your Roman masters?”

  His thumbs dug into a sore muscle and she groaned in response, unsure whether the unexpected pressure caused pleasure or pain. He wound her hair around one hand but didn’t jerk her head up as she expected. Instead he appeared satisfied to know she was utterly in his power.

  For now. But later, when he writhed in ecstasy as she rode him into oblivion, the power would be all hers.

  “A long time.” There was an edge to his voice, as if he no longer found her questions entertaining.

  “Yet you speak of them with contempt.” Again her eyelids flickered. Gods, it was hard to keep awake as the scented heat of the water and magical ministrations of the Gaul’s fingers relaxed her to such a degree she could scarcely summon the energy to think, never mind converse.

  This time he did pull her head up by her hair, but it wasn’t vicious. Just inexorable, letting her know he could. Letting her know she had no choice.

  A groan escaped as he forced her neck over the rim of the tub. His face was close to hers and she blinked, disoriented by his upside-down visage, and his other hand slid around her vulnerable throat, strong fingers closing over her erratic pulse, applying pressure, a heartbeat away from severing her thread to this life.

  The flickering glow from the lamps cast enticing shadows across his roughened jaw and she had the overwhelming urge to reach up, drag her nails across his face and pull him to her, so she could feel the abrasive texture of his day-old beard flay her tender flesh.

  “And you, Celt, speak without first weighing your words.” His thumb trailed slowly along the line of her jaw, back and forth, a lazy, seductive motion that sent tremors skittering along her taut skin without relaxing his death grip on her throat. “Haven’t you yet learned to hold your tongue when in the presence of your enemy?”

  “I’ve never before been captured by my enemy.” Her voice was breathless, her lungs depleted. Her throat ached and the tub dug into the back of her neck. But that all faded against the way his thumb continued to stroke her, almost as if he didn’t realize what he was doing, yet the careless caress stoked the dark eroticism bubbling deep in her blood.

  She would put up with a great deal more discomfort for the pleasure his touch evoked.

  And his thumb stilled. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip to stop herself from begging. She would never beg for his touch. But gods, how she wanted it, and how despicable that she craved him so.

  His gaze roved over her face before locking with hers. Even upside down his eyes enchanted. How easy it would be, looking into those mystical green depths, to forget who and what he was.

  “We could negotiate a truce.” His words sank into her, as dark and rich and forbidden as the most decadent of unknown Roman luxury imported from the exotic East. And then his meaning permeated her lust-dazed mind. Victory stabbed through the swirling flames of desire, melding and intensifying, and unbearable heat ignited low in her womb, fiery tendrils flickering around her sensitized core.

  Already he had grown to trust her enough to offer a truce. If she didn’t wish to travel to Camulodunon for her own reasons, how easy it would be to incapacitate him after they’d fucked, and make good her escape.

  “What do you have in mind?” It was a blatant invitation but she didn’t care. Every muscle, every nerve, every particle of her skin screamed for release. If he didn’t drag her from this water soon, if he didn’t toss her onto the bed, immobilize her with his hard body and take her with savage, frenzied thrusts, she’d have no choice but to crucify her pride and reverse the scenario.

  Chapter 7

  Her skin was warm, wet and silky soft beneath his rough fingers. She didn’t trust him, and yet she offered the vulnerable column of her throat without resistance. For a fleeting moment he tightened his clasp on her and felt her pulse accelerate in anticipation or alarm, but there was no fear in her dark eyes as she gazed up at him. Only lust, desire and a clawing want that mirrored his own.

  Still gripping her hair so she couldn’t move should such a thought occur to her, he slowly slid his other hand from her throat across the enticing swell of her breast. She drew in a ragged breath but didn’t push him away. Water lapped over his hand, over her nipples, and he had the sudden vision of joining her in the tub, pulling her onto his lap and plunging his shaft deep into her welcoming cleft.

  Air hissed between his teeth. The tub was too small. He lowered his head so their breath mingled and slid his hand beneath her breast, cupping its slippery weight, pinching her erect nipple between thumb and forefinger, never taking his eyes from hers.

  If only he could trust her not to slit his throat while he slept, or poison him as they ate. But too much pride glittered in her eyes for her to ever truly embrace her perceived enemy. He’d have to settle for a more superficial truce.

  “When we stop for the night, we agree to forget our warring heritage.”

  Her lips parted, breath shortened, and she subtly angled her body so her luscious breast pressed more securely into the palm of his hand.

  “Can you make me forget?” Her arm emerged from the water and languid fingers trailed over his jaw. A featherlight touch yet edged with danger as her nails dug into his throat and dragged down to the neck of his tunic.

  He could make her forget. And maybe, for a few fleeting moments, she could make him forget, too.

  But it wasn’t his heritage he wanted or needed to suppress. Mindless oblivion beckoned and as much as the promise of sexual satisfaction enticed, the tempting notion of deadening his memories, no matter how temporarily, mocked him with contemptuous impossibility.

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t answer, but the tip of her tongue teased her upper lip in a deliberately seductive gesture, as if daring him to take what she refused to verbally offer. He lowered his head. She wouldn’t resist. No matter how she despised him, she still craved their joining.

  He slid his hand from her wet globe, trailed over her ribs and across her taut stomach. Her long eyelashes flickered, her breath gusted. Silken skin tantalized his palm, fired his blood and thundered through his heart.

  Soon, his self-imposed celibacy would incinerate beneath the desire that scorched between them. A celibacy he’d never willingly embraced yet one that had become part of his existence, as integral as the nightmares that plagued his sleep and the visions that haunted his waking hours.

  A discordant thud against the door jarred his brain and shuddered through his bones, disconnecting the intoxicating moment. Morwyn opened her
lust-glazed eyes and stared up at him in unfocused bemusement.

  His hand fisted in her hair and then slowly he relaxed his fingers and allowed her luxuriant tresses to slide free over the outside of the tub. With equal reluctance he dragged his hand from the water, over her slick body, the curve of her breast, the hard nub of her nipple. For a moment he gripped the edge of the tub, grasping at his fractured concentration, before sucking in a pained breath and snatching the cloth that lay on the floor.

  “Cover yourself.” His voice was harsh. He had no intention of allowing any other to see her naked. “Stand up.” But gods, he had every intention of seeing her so himself.

  Her eyes narrowed, as if she contemplated disobeying. “Why should I?”

  Contemplation be cursed. She would never obey him voluntarily. Once again he leaned over her and offered her a mirthless smile as frustration seared his arteries and fried his reflexes.

  “Because I doubt you want those louse-ridden boys to see you as a mortal Venus.”

  Her frown intensified. “Heathen Roman goddess. You insult me.” But she curled her fingers around the edge of the tub and heaved herself up with obvious discomfort, as if her muscles protested at such unwelcome exertion.

  She wasn’t anything like the deity the Romans worshipped. With her delectable rounded arse, sculpted waist and finely toned arms, she was nothing less than the visage of the Maiden Morrigan, the great goddess he had worshipped in his youth.

  Slowly she turned to face him and his mouth dried. Water slid from her shoulders, traced over her breasts and dripped from the dark tips of her nipples. But she made no move toward him, no sign she was vexed by this untimely interruption.

  Perhaps she wasn’t.

  The notion scraped across raw nerves and he thrust the cloth at her before he abandoned the last shredded remnants of control and fucked her regardless. And lost, forever, the remaining fragment of the man he truly was.

  He marched to the door, legs as stiff as his cock and, with a glance to ensure Morwyn had covered herself, jerked it open.

  The innkeeper’s wife, laden with platters, avoided his glare and he stepped aside so she could enter. The two boys followed her, their hot eyes fixed upon Morwyn with blatant relish. Bren clenched his fists. They scarcely reached his shoulder and yet the way they looked at her enraged him as if they were grown men leering at a helpless girl.

  Standing in the center of the tub, Morwyn looked nothing like a helpless girl and every cursed Roman inch a confident Celtic woman, comfortable with the undoubted effect she had on impressionable young males.

  Only with difficulty did Bren refrain from slamming the door so it shattered in its frame. Instead he watched the woman and boys deposit their offerings on top of the chest before making their way back to him.

  Except one of the boys hovered, clearly besotted by the wet vision before him.

  “Do you need any help, mistress?”

  “Daric! Get over here.” Horror laced the woman’s tone, as if she expected Bren to behead the boy for such audacity.

  “No, thank you.” Morwyn sounded like a queen addressing one of her loyal subjects and the smile she bestowed on the lad knotted Bren’s guts, although he wasn’t sure why. “The Gaul can attend to my needs.”

  She made him sound like her slave. An odd thread of amusement slithered through him at the thought and again he wondered who she truly was. Somehow he couldn’t envisage her as a trader, someone who haggled and compromised and knew when to hold her tongue or smother her pride.

  His illogical irritation against the boys evaporated. They weren’t attacking and Morwyn was in no danger. He strode back to her and shoved the boy toward the door. “You can empty this tub now.”

  As the three of them scuttled from the room he turned to her. She was staring at him, a frown creasing her brow, as if she was trying to work something out.

  “Does everyone cower before you in terror?”

  Her question shouldn’t matter. And yet a dull ache punched through his chest, instantly gone, but the echo remained.

  Not a flicker of such emotion touched his face. “I’ve yet to see you cower before me, Morwyn.”

  She arched her eyebrows. “And you never will, Gaul.” She glanced at his outstretched hand, as if contemplating whether or not to accept his assistance. And then he recalled her injured leg.

  “Do you wish me to lift you out?”

  Her eyes glittered in the flickering glow from the lamps. For a moment he thought she was going to accept his offer. But then she glanced at the open door and appeared to reconsider.

  “I can manage.” She tucked the cloth securely around her breasts, gripped the edge of the tub and gingerly lifted her injured leg. Even in this muted light he could see the ugly bruises marring her lower thigh.

  Trogus would pay. With interest.

  With a smothered sigh she sat on the edge of the bed and began to dry her legs with the second cloth. Her movements were graceful, sensuous, but she appeared unaware of her seduction. There were no sideways glances, no fluttering of eyelashes. She appeared on the verge of exhaustion.

  Bren shifted his weight from one foot to the other but it did nothing to relieve the arousal thudding along the length of his shaft. Why had he arranged for food to be delivered to their room? Without such interruption they could now be slaking their desire.

  But no. He’d not wanted others to see Morwyn’s battered face when they ate in the tavern. Hadn’t wanted to tolerate the inevitable muffled whispers, be the recipient of more distrustful looks, or have his character assassinated yet again for actions he’d not committed.

  The boys returned and began to empty the tub with their buckets. He dragged his gaze from the hypnotic sweep of Morwyn’s hands along her legs and strode to the chest.

  “I trust you’re hungry.”

  “So long as it’s not filthy Roman imports.” She dried her arms, seemingly unaware or unconcerned by the furtive glances thrown her way by the boys as they entered and left the room.

  He sniffed the guinea fowl. “Imported, yes. But not filthy.”

  Her sigh was audible. He looked over at her as she dried her hair with the cloth and she caught his gaze. “I’m so famished I’ll eat their heathen food. My pride doesn’t extend to starving myself over such a minor point.”

  His lip twitched but through sheer force of habit he suppressed the smile that threatened to escape. Gods. He’d met her only a few hours ago yet she’d tempted him to laughter more often this day than he could recall during the last half-dozen years.

  “I’m glad your survival instincts are so strong.”

  She gave the ends of her hair one final squeeze before tossing the saturated cloth onto the floor by the now-emptied tub. “My survival instincts are intact.” She pushed herself from the bed and came beside him to frown at the food. The top of her head didn’t even reach his jaw. “I doubt it will kill me to eat such barbarous offerings on occasion.”

  Her fresh scent invaded his senses, clean and pure. But she appeared utterly focused on the food, as if their earlier interaction had never occurred.

  As the boys dragged the tub from the room and finally shut the door, Bren handed her a plate. “You may find you like it.”

  She wrinkled her nose as she scooped up some carrots. “There’s nothing wrong with our own food. These people are Britons. Why do they serve Roman muck?”

  He tore the guinea fowl into portions and dropped a quarter onto her plate. She stared at it as if he’d just offered her a severed hand.

  “Not everything foreign is inherently inferior.”

  Morwyn wiped a finger across the poultry and then licked the flavor with her tongue. Her frown didn’t waver. “It is when the foreigners concerned are Romans.”

  Mostly, he agreed. But he’d lived the Roman way for too many years now not to have seen advantages to their systems. Their military system in particular. They hadn’t conquered the civilized world through luck alone, no matter how his people might
wish that was so.

  “Sometimes survival calls for compromise.” As he’d compromised for the last few years, inveigling himself with the enemy to learn their weaknesses and exploit their arrogant pride.

  “No.” Morwyn’s tone was firm as she settled herself against the pillows on the bed, her plate piled surprisingly high considering her opinion of the feast. “I’d never go against my principles, simply to survive under the yoke of Rome.”

  “And yet you have no compunction in eating their imported food.” He poured the wine and sat beside her, and shot her a sardonic glance as she ate the guinea fowl with apparent relish. Would she enjoy the Roman wine as much? He hadn’t thought to ask if she’d prefer the locally brewed ale.

  She wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “Nothing else is available.” Then her brow creased as if she realized she’d just inadvertently agreed with him. “This is different. It’s not what I meant at all.”

  “It’s still a compromise.” He shoveled in a mouthful of vegetables so she wouldn’t see the grin threatening to crack his lips. He didn’t know why he found contradicting her enjoyable. Gods, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d enjoyed a conversation to this degree.

  Except he could. More than six years ago. For a moment the memories seared through his brain, recollections of laughter and love and careless words that could be uttered without first analyzing their possible intent.

  And tonight, with Morwyn, he once again spoke without thought of how his words might be interpreted. With a woman who believed him her worst enemy, a woman who would betray him given the slightest opportunity.

  “I don’t agree.” There was an edge in her voice, as if she didn’t appreciate having her remarks twisted. “In fact, what could be better than nourishing myself on the enemy’s food in order to—” She snapped her jaw together as if she belatedly recalled to whom she was speaking, before once again biting into the enemy’s food.