The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance

by Christina Phillips

  Words of explanation almost tumbled from her lips but something stilled her tongue. It was easy to flirt. But she’d never lost her voice during sex before and couldn’t quite believe she had just now. After all, she had screamed most adequately last night.

  But she had to say something in response.

  “Then next time, you’ll simply have to try harder.”

  A silent laugh shook his body, as if he knew full well how deeply he’d satisfied her. Fascinated by his reaction, she stared at him. She always enjoyed flirting and only once in her life had she been involved with a man who had taken exception to her particular brand of humor. They had barely lasted one night together.

  But never before had she made so many potentially disrespectful comments. Then again, she’d never before been abducted, and as far as she was concerned he deserved every word she’d slung at him.

  Yet that initial animosity had passed, and now that she considered the matter she realized there was something about pushing this Gaul’s limits she found irresistible. When else had she insulted a lover’s performance while they were still joined as one?

  Any man would feel justified at taking offence. If she believed the outrageous claims of Carys’ husband, then Dunmacos wasn’t the sort of man to allow a woman to utter such slurs without savage retribution.

  Yet all he did was smother a laugh. Because he knew she didn’t mean it. Knew she’d been so consumed with mind-shattering orgasms she’d all but passed out.

  It was unnerving, to consider he knew such things about her. Because until this moment she hadn’t even known them herself.

  “I will, if you will.” His husky whisper, threaded with amusement, nonplussed her for a moment, until she realized what he meant.

  Gods, he was flirting in the same manner. Why was that so arousing?

  “That depends.” With stiffening fingers, she tugged the hem of his tunic. “I’m tired of fighting your cursed clothes. Next time I want naked flesh.” His name thudded in her brain, and incomprehensibly her heart hammered in sudden nerves.

  Say his name. How hard could it be? She sucked in a sharp breath and forced the name between her lips before she could change her mind. “Dunmacos.”

  His half smile froze, and his eyes became chips of wintry ice. Bemused by such a swift change in his manner, she stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “Don’t.” His voice was harsh, bitter, as if she had just accused him of— She couldn’t imagine. She’d insulted his heritage, his loyalties and his sexual prowess and he hadn’t so much as tossed a genuine frown her way. What had she said now?

  A glimmer flashed through her mind, but it didn’t make sense. Why would he not want her to say his name? That couldn’t be the reason. There was something else.

  “Don’t what?”

  He eased out of her, leaving her chilled and exposed and oddly rejected. But that was insane, because every copulation ended with withdrawal and never before had such a natural action invoked such a feeling within her.

  “Don’t call me that.” Now his voice was as cold as his expression, but not nearly as cold as the hard knot that lodged midway between her stomach and throat.

  “Then I won’t.” Hating him more than she thought possible to hate anyone without plunging a dagger into his neck, she gingerly unhooked her ankles and slithered ungracefully down his legs. At least he didn’t let go of her backside until her feet were firmly on the floor.

  She remained leaning against the door for support and glowered at him. She had left Carys to be treated like this? As if she truly were his slave and unworthy to utter his name to his face?

  An odd spasm twisted his features, as if her glare pained him. Once her blood was properly flowing and she could feel her legs again, she would certainly give him pain. A swift knee between his thighs should suffice.

  “Only my enemies and acquaintances who wish me dead call me by that name.”

  She stared at him in disbelief, thoughts tumbling in disarray. He sounded as though he’d never said such a thing before, and never would again.

  He sighed heavily and gently brushed a damp curl from her cheek. His finger lingered on her flushed skin as if he couldn’t help himself.

  She didn’t knock his hand aside. Even though her pride insisted.

  “Do you still want me dead, Morwyn?” There was no hint of vulnerability in the question. He sounded exactly what he was. A tough auxiliary who worked for the Romans.

  Except for the fleeting glimmer in his eyes. The glimmer that said so much more than his words ever would.

  Something twisted inside her chest, a burning pain that coiled on itself, burying deep inside. Oddly it felt as if it was her heart, but that was absurd. All she felt for this Gaul was physical lust. That didn’t—couldn’t—touch her heart.

  And yet, she didn’t want him dead. She didn’t even have to consider his question because the thought of him lying at her feet, bleeding, dying, was enough to churn her stomach.

  Her enemy. The enemy of her people. But she no longer wanted him dead.

  “No.” The word was low, dragged from her soul, betraying everything she had ever fought for. “I don’t want you dead, Gaul.”

  His calloused finger traced the outline of her face. Gentle and erotic and, bizarrely, somehow comforting. He looked as if he was about to say more, as if he struggled with an internal battle, and finally he exhaled a defeated sigh.

  “I believe you.”

  But that wasn’t what he had wanted to say. She knew it, as surely as if he’d told her himself. And yet conversely she also knew he did believe her. So what had he wanted to say to her before his cursed military training had curbed his tongue?

  “So I’ll continue to call you the Gaul, shall I?” The stinging hurt scalding her breast had subsided, almost vanished. And, strangely, she preferred calling him the Gaul to his given name. Dunmacos was a stranger whom Maximus knew. A man she had never encountered and never wanted to.

  But the Gaul—her Gaul—he was the man standing in front of her. The man cradling her jaw in the palm of his hand, as if she were something precious and fragile.

  Unnerved by the errant direction of her thoughts, she tried to recall the cold look on his face from a moment ago. The ice in his eyes.

  And failed.

  Chapter 17

  “You can call me anything,” he said, “except for that hated name.”

  She let out a breath, unaware she’d even been holding it. “A bold statement. You might wish to rethink your stand on that.”

  For answer, he wound his arm around her shoulders and maneuvered her from the door. It was such an intimate gesture, yet lacking all sexual intent, as if he knew her legs were still shaky and she needed, but would never request, assistance.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and he brought over a bowl of water, so she could wash her hands. With manners that befit the highest in her hierarchy, he waited until she’d finished before cleansing himself.

  He was no lowly peasant. But she’d always known that. Would she ever discover who he truly was?

  As he returned the bowl to the table, he glanced at the food she hadn’t touched.

  “You didn’t eat much.”

  She almost told him she hadn’t been hungry. But why lie? Now she was starving, and what did it matter if he knew she had explored the town?

  “I didn’t have time. I went out after you left.”

  He shot her a look of undisguised astonishment, although he concealed his expression almost instantly. It was as if she’d confessed to a grievous crime, one he could scarcely wrap his mind around.

  Or perhaps he was simply amazed she had dared to leave the inn without his express permission.

  The thought quirked her lips. Hadn’t he told her he found her unpredictable?

  “Why?” His tone was guarded. He obviously couldn’t imagine any reason for her doing such a thing.

  She shrugged and stretched her legs, rotating her ankles and curling her toes. “I w
anted to see my friend again.”

  The look on his face was worth the twinges of cramps attacking her calves, and she hid the smile that threatened to surface. Clearly he believed she had lost her mind.

  “Your friend lives in Camulodunon?”

  “Yes. I hadn’t seen her in . . . a while.”

  He appeared to be digesting her revelation, and finding it extraordinarily hard to swallow. “She was a good friend of yours?” He sounded as though he found that beyond belief, as if he had assumed she possessed no friends at all, never mind lifelong ones.

  Oddly, she wasn’t offended by his assumption. Probably because he still looked confused by her casual remarks.

  “She’s like a sister to me. We grew up together.” And they had always believed they would grow old together too. Along with the men they chose and any children they might have decided to birth in the future.

  But that had been another future. For another time.

  Doubt clouded his eyes. He appeared to be weighing up her words, and she had the distinct suspicion he no longer believed her. But why would he think that? What did she have to gain by lying about such a thing?

  “That’s why you speak the Latin of the patricians.”

  Of everything she thought he might have said, that wasn’t one of them. Had she imagined that look of skepticism on his face? Once again he wore his mask of implacability.

  And how intriguing he had leaped to such a conclusion. How had he linked her lifelong friend with her ability to speak the language of the invaders?

  “We shared a tutor. My Latin isn’t perfect because I was older when I began lessons.”

  He glanced at the food as if her conversation no longer interested him, and began to pile cold meat onto a platter. “A Roman tutor?” His voice was casual but she caught the underlying tautness, as if far from uninterest he was, in reality, acutely interested in her words.

  Baffled by such odd behavior, she stood and began to pile fruit and strange-looking vegetables on a second platter.

  “No, of course not. He was Gallic.” She shot him a glance but he continued to examine the food. Carys’ elderly tutor might have originated from Gaul, and he might have been a Druid. But he had also possessed a Roman-bred mother.

  She decided not to mention either of those last two facts.

  “You must have been young when you began your lessons.” He turned and gave her a probing look before settling himself on the bed to eat.

  She sat beside him, closer than necessary, although she wasn’t sure why.

  “I was almost seven when my friend was born.” She couldn’t tell him Carys’ name. He knew Maximus. He might well know the name of Maximus’ wife. And for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, she didn’t want him to make the connection.

  Again he shot her a glance, and this time there was the faintest trace of sympathy softening his hard features. As if the fact she had been taught Latin by a native of Gaul was somehow . . . tragic.

  But that was insane. Why would he think such a thing? It was a massive advantage to understand everything the enemy said. He knew that. He spoke fluent Latin too.

  Since he was now intent on eating and there wasn’t the slightest trace of sympathy on his face, she half wondered if she had imagined it.

  “Didn’t she expect you to stay in Camulodunon for a time?”

  Morwyn licked her sticky fingers and glanced at him. He caught her look and held it, but it wasn’t challenging. He appeared genuinely interested.

  “Yes, of course she wanted me to stay.” The words were out before she could think through the implications. But then, what implication could he draw from such a statement?

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Because I wanted to see you again. Blood heated her face, an infuriating reaction, but she couldn’t help it. And worse, her brain couldn’t conjure up another reason as to why she’d turned down Carys’ invitation. It was as if her only and entire motive for leaving Camulodunon was centered on this Gaul.

  And it wasn’t. She had to leave Camulodunon because . . .

  The real reason drifted with an odd undercurrent of reluctance across her paralyzed mind and she almost sagged in relief.

  “Because I have to return home.” And find where the rebels were hiding. How had she forgotten that? It was her overriding goal. But her gaze dropped from his and she concentrated on her food, because she would die if he somehow guessed by a flicker of her eyes or expression that she wasn’t completely convinced by her own reply.

  The Gaul sprawled on the other end of the bed, watching her comb the tangles from her hair. After they’d finished eating she’d cleansed her other gown as well as she could and left it to dry over the table. At least it no longer stank of sweat, although there was nothing she could do about the clinging odor of horse or travel until she returned to civilization.

  Gods, she needed to bathe. The image of a Roman tub floated through her mind, and instead of immediately dismissing it, she savored the notion for a few brief moments.

  Perhaps she’d suggest such a thing to him. But this time they could indulge together.

  She smothered a sigh. Clearly, she had not yet had enough of him. She could only hope that, by the time they reached Cymru, her desire for him would cool.

  Otherwise her nights would be plagued not merely by frustrated, lust-driven dreams, but a face and a body instead of an anonymous fantasy lover.

  He opened a pouch that hung from his belt. Idly she watched him. How odd it was, to be sitting at the foot of the bed as if it was the most natural thing for them to share a quiet, domestic moment together.

  She had never lived with a man when such a situation might have arisen. And she certainly wasn’t living with her Gaul, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling, no matter how incongruous.

  “Here.” He pushed himself upright and deposited something onto her lap, scattering her errant thoughts. Bemused, she stared at the riot of vibrant colors splashed across her gown.

  “What is it?” Gingerly she picked up the end of a sunshine golden length of material and gasped. It was cool, soft like the most luxuriant of fur, yet also as smooth as a babe’s skin.

  Enthralled, she traced the tip of her finger across a length of forest green ribbon that reminded her of the Gaul’s eyes. Entranced, she picked up a strip of scarlet and then of summer-sky blue.

  “Silk,” she said, looking at him as he once again reclined at the other end of the bed. He looked uncomfortable, as if he was unused to giving gifts, and offered her a one-shouldered shrug in reply.

  A painful tug knotted the top of her stomach. While she had been contemplating leaving him, he had been purchasing silken ribbons for her.

  “They’re beautiful.” She threaded the green one through her fingers, delighting in the silky sensation against her skin. “Thank you.” And then she couldn’t help herself. “Why?”

  His discomfort was palpable. Even though they weren’t touching, she could feel the way his muscles tensed, as if the last thing he had expected or wanted to do was explain his reasoning for giving her such an unexpected gift.

  “Because.” It was a growl.

  She rolled onto her knees and, holding her treasures in one hand, crawled up the bed beside him. He eyed her with evident suspicion, as if anticipating more unanswerable questions.

  “Because?” She sat back on her heels, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around his neck and show him just how much his gesture meant to her.

  Because it shouldn’t mean that much to her. He had likely bought them only because he felt guilty for abducting her in the first place. And yet even knowing that didn’t change the way she felt.

  She still wanted to wrap herself around him. And, most worrying, never let go.

  He let out a disgruntled breath, as if she were a great annoyance. Anyone catching sight of the scowl on his face would be forgiven for running in terror. Yet she had no fear because no matter how he grimaced or glared, he could never quite hide the t
ruth of his feelings from his eyes.

  Was she the only one who could see that?

  Maximus was mistaken in his opinion. This Gaul with the astonishing chink of vulnerability in his eyes could never be responsible for the crimes leveled against him.

  “Because.” The word was loaded with intense irritation. “Your gown was ruined in the forest.”

  But not by him. Once again she stared at the ribbons, fascinated by how the colors shimmered as she twisted the silk between her fingers.

  He hadn’t got them for her to apologize for abducting her, or chaining her like a slave. He’d bought them because his foul countrymen had attacked her.

  Her brain knew such distinction meant nothing. Either way he had given them to her as a wordless apology for wrongs inflicted upon her.

  Yet another, irrational, part of her insisted that the distinction meant everything.

  Bren watched Morwyn enter the public baths as if it were something she did on a daily basis. He leaned his shoulder against one of the fluted stone columns that graced the entrance, checked the military dispatch was still safely secured, and folded his arms.

  Morwyn would be a while. When he’d suggested she visit the baths, she’d looked thrilled and hadn’t even tried too hard to hide her reaction. As if she no longer cared whether he knew the thought of such indulgence fascinated her.

  But while her face told him she had no reservations about trying out the Roman baths, her tongue launched into a scathing diatribe of the invaders’ decadence. He hadn’t bothered arguing with her, and after a moment she’d stopped midsentence and started to laugh.

  Unexpected and contrary. Her convictions were as rock, yet she laughed at herself when the irony of her comments became absurd. If he thought she would say one thing, she said another. And while he’d imagined she would deny having left the inn if asked, she’d instead told him without any prompting. As if she considered it her right to come and go as she pleased and it had never crossed her mind he might think otherwise.