The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance

by Christina Phillips

  He rammed into her, thick and long and right. So right. As if this joining with this man was something she had been searching for all her life, without even knowing for what she had searched.

  The thought was insane but still it lingered, like a flickering candle in the darkness of her mind. And when he came, hammering her into the mattress with every glorious, brutal thrust, the feeling didn’t dissolve but bloomed, like a deadly pestilence.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew it was wrong. But it made no difference. Because being with her Gaul felt so unequivocally right.

  Morwyn stirred from the depths of a blissful, dreamless sleep. The room was silent, but beyond her closed eyelids red light tinged, as if a lamp still burned.

  She cracked open one eye, expecting to see her Gaul asleep next to her. The bed was empty. Without knowing why, a frisson of alarm snaked along her spine, as if his absence was a portent of unknowable disaster.

  Stealthily, although she still couldn’t fathom her cautiousness, she opened both eyes and blinked to bring focus. On the other side of the room by the single lamp sat her Gaul with a rolled parchment. As she watched, he carefully removed, with apparent expertise, the wax seal and proceeded to read the contents as if he had every right in the world to do so.

  Chapter 19

  The sun was sinking onto the western horizon, and Morwyn knew all she should feel was elation that soon she’d once again be in Cymru.

  But the overwhelming emotion thudding through her veins wasn’t relief. It was a confusing maelstrom of dread and loss. Grief.

  Because once they were back in the land of her birth, she would have to leave her Gaul and find Caratacus.

  “Not long now.” The Gaul’s familiar smoky voice drifted by her ear as she leaned back against his chest. How different the journey home had been from the one to Camulodunon. Had it truly been scarcely six days since they had met?

  Sometimes, as they galloped across the British countryside or lay sated and entwined in the black heat of night, she had trouble recalling how her life had been before that encounter.

  A ragged sigh tore through her lips. Once she joined the rebellion, she would forget him soon enough. Yet a hard knot deep in her chest ridiculed her conviction.

  The Gaul would not so easily be wiped from her memory.

  “Morwyn.” One arm was around her waist, holding her close, as if he could exert perfect control over the horse by using only his legs. “I promised to see you safely back to your kinsfolk.”

  Had he? She couldn’t recall. “There’s no need. I can find my own way.” Except that wasn’t true. She didn’t know the way, and what made her assume she would have better luck on her own when even with her fellow Druids the Briton king’s hideout had remained elusive?

  His arm tightened. It was a blatantly possessive gesture but strangely she wasn’t offended. Perhaps because before this day ended—or, at most, first thing in the morn—she would leave him forever. And never again experience the sensation of being held so securely in his arms.

  “I would see you safely home.” There was a dangerous thread in his voice, as if he would accept no dissent. She threaded her fingers through his, trying to ignore the sharp pain that sliced through her chest.

  His sense of honor would never allow her to leave by herself in territory he considered hostile. He left her no option but to steal away when he least expected it. Unable to even exchange a fitting good-bye.

  “If you insist.” She injected a touch of impatience in her tone so he wouldn’t become suspicious. But the words were like stale blood in her mouth, foul with the knowledge she lied.

  “I’ll be unable to escort you until my next leave of absence. Only a few days. Not long to wait.”

  She smothered the foolish hope that leaped in her breast. It made no difference whether his intent was to accompany her home in the morn or another moon. There was no village and she certainly would never allow him to escort her to Mon.

  Besides, her destination was unknown even to her. Unless . . .

  A thought stirred. He was taking her to the settlement that surrounded the Roman fortification in Cymru to which he was attached. If she stayed a day or so, she might pick up gossip to assist in her search for Caratacus. Perhaps—although she knew it highly unlikely—even discover another Druid.

  “You expect me to live in a barbaric Roman barracks?” She shot him a mock-disgusted glance over her shoulder and knew instantly it was a mistake. Because he smiled at her, the smile that lightened his face and caused his eyes to crinkle. The smile she’d grown used to over the last few days, but now it caused an ache to unfurl deep within the region of her heart.

  “No.” He sounded amused. And no longer attempted to hide it as he had when they had first met. “I’ll find you lodgings in the town.”

  Despite the entrancing sight of his smile and intriguing knowledge of how so much more relaxed he appeared, irritation spiked at his easy assumption that she would have no qualms about accepting his protection.

  “I’m more than capable of securing my own lodgings, Gaul.” She could barter one of her bracelets. They were of excellent craftsmanship and would fetch a good price, and it wasn’t as if she required accommodation for more than a night or two.

  His smile faded and expression hardened. A silent sigh echoed through her mind at the transformation. Once again he reminded her of the day they had met in the forest.

  “I know that.” A thread of irritation heated his words, as if he’d taken offense at her remark. “But the old ways are changing, Morwyn. No matter how you wish otherwise, the Roman ways are infiltrating. It’s not safe for a woman alone to secure lodgings. But if they know you’re with me, no one will dare touch you.”

  An angry buzzing filled her head, as if a swarm of bees sought escape. Beyond the waves of fury pounding against her skull, she knew he had intended no insult. Had merely been telling her the way things now were.

  But it didn’t seem to make any difference to her tongue.

  “If I had my dagger, no man would dare touch me without permission.” She was of noble blood, of Druidic descent. And a warrior. The notion that she was now considered unable to defend herself twisted her stomach and caused bile to rise.

  She didn’t need a man to protect her. Not even her Gaul.

  Especially not my Gaul. He was part of the reason she was no longer safe in her own homeland.

  “I don’t doubt you.” His voice was grim. “I’m telling you how it is in the town. And . . .” He hesitated for a fleeting moment. “It’s not only the Romans and auxiliaries I’m referring to.”

  He meant her people were following the invaders’ culture and attitude. She clenched her fists, and realized her fingers were still entwined with his. She considered jerking free. And then expelled a long, measured breath instead.

  She was fighting this battle with the wrong man. Enemy auxiliary he might be, but he had never treated her with disrespect. Except for that one time. She froze the recollection from her mind. That was different. Although she wasn’t sure why, just that it was.

  “My people”—she knew her voice cracked, knew he had heard it—“have lost their way.” Because those they had looked to in times of need had abandoned them. First to the magical spiral, and then to the Isle of Mon. Could she blame them for turning their backs on their way of life, when all their leaders had vanished?

  He didn’t answer her. She hadn’t expected him to. How could he, when it was his chosen way of life she scorned?

  But as they neared the forests of Cymru, he gently rested his jaw against the top of her head in silent sympathy.

  They dismounted before entering the settlement. It reminded her of the town that had sprung up around the fortification erected near her own home village where Carys had met her Roman centurion.

  Makeshift dwellings nestled between those of timber and stone; an untidy sprawl around the rigidly constructed enemy garrison that dominated the area.

  There w
ere no Roman-clad women here. Unlike Camulodunon, her people had not blindly embraced the fashion to blend in. But even so, there were countless legionaries strolling through the bustling market, eyeing up the local girls, subliminally displaying the fact they were the conquerors in every arrogant glance and word.

  “Stay close.” The Gaul’s arm tightened around her in clear protection. She couldn’t decide whether she was touched or annoyed by his concern.

  “I’m well trained in defense.”

  He didn’t answer, but she didn’t miss the swift glance he shot her way, and the annoyance sharpened. She knew he didn’t believe her. And the irritating fact was, she couldn’t blame him.

  What else could he think when he’d come upon her when she’d been spread upon the ground? The memory charred her pride. Although she’d had every intention of gutting the bastard slobbering over her, she knew her chances of survival had been nonexistent.

  Until the Gaul had rescued her.

  She was grateful. And that by itself was hard to accept, but harder still was the knowledge that, because of that first encounter, his view of her was forever tarnished.

  “I’ll find lodgings for you before I report in.”

  Lips compressed, she tugged one of her bracelets from her wrist and handed it to him. He looked at it as if he had never seen such jewelry before in his life.

  “Take it in payment.” She shoved it against his chest but still he made no move to accept it. “For the lodgings.”

  “I don’t want payment.” He sounded insulted.

  Her own wounded pride eased a little at that. “I don’t care what you want, Gaul. Take it and sell it and use the money to pay my expenses. I won’t be in debt to anyone.”

  His eyes glinted. Perhaps it was a trick of the sunlight but she didn’t think so. He may have trained his facial expression to show not a trace of his true feelings but he hadn’t completely mastered shielding emotion from those incredible eyes.

  Without a word he unhooked his arm from her waist, took the bracelet between thumb and forefinger as if it burned his flesh, and stuffed it into a pouch hanging from his belt. He didn’t reclaim her waist and she slid him a sideways glance. He was staring directly ahead, a ferocious frown on his face, and looked as if he would rip the head off anyone who so much as dared to cross his path.

  There wasn’t much chance of that. People scuttled out of his way as if Arawn, lord of the Otherworld, stormed among them, and Morwyn smothered the irrational urge to giggle. It was hard to reconcile the obvious fear he evoked in others with the man she knew in private. In truth, she had trouble envisaging him killing anyone outside a battlefield, and yet still Maximus’ words lingered in the back of her mind.

  Her smile faded. She knew he was wrong, but why had he formed such a poor opinion of her Gaul? She burned to discover the truth, but knew she never would. Because that would involve asking him outright, and how could she do that without sounding as though she accused him of such crimes?

  The lodgings were located in one of the stone buildings, and after entrusting the horse’s care to a half-starved-looking boy, he accompanied her to her room. It looked very much like the rooms they had shared on the journey.

  He stood in the doorway as she sauntered across the room and tested the mattress with the palm of one hand. “Will you be gone long?” She glanced over her shoulder. He was still scowling.

  “I’ll be back before sundown.”

  That would give her plenty of time to explore the settlement. “Then I’ll eat when you return.” And she wasn’t simply referring to food, either. The thought caused a glow to heat her body. Gods, would she never have enough of this man?

  He stepped toward her and her thoughts splintered as she stared at his raised hand.

  “This is yours.” Her dagger glinted across his outstretched palm. “I trust you won’t cut my throat when I return this eve.”

  Silently she took her dagger and traced her thumb over the familiar pattern of jewels encrusted in the hilt. It hadn’t occurred to her he would return it. He’d appeared quite attached to it, secured at his waist. She’d often caught him grazing his fingertips over the handle, as if the texture pleased.

  “I won’t cut your throat, Gaul.” There was an oddly husky tone in her voice. She hoped he hadn’t noticed but the chances of that were small. He seemed to notice everything she didn’t want him to.

  His fingers slid beneath her chin and she looked up at him. Irritation no longer carved his features and instead he looked the way she would always see him in her mind, whenever she recalled him in the years that stretched ahead.

  Green eyes. She knew those eyes would forever haunt her. And his face, looking younger and less brutalized than when she’d first met him in the forest. Tough exterior but concealing so very much more than the rest of the world appeared to realize.

  “Stay safe.” His voice was rough but for one fleeting moment she saw vulnerability flash across his face and glitter in his eyes. So swift it might have been an illusion.

  She knew what he really meant. He knew she intended to explore the settlement. That was why he’d returned her dagger. For protection. Her throat constricted, as if she had just received tragic news about a loved one, and something twisted deep inside like a serpent coiling, ready to strike.

  “I will.” Her words were barely audible but he offered her a faint smile in response before claiming her trembling lips in a tender, too-fleeting kiss.

  And then he was gone.

  It had been many moons since Morwyn had walked among so many of her own people. In Camulodunon she had felt as if she’d been transplanted to Rome itself. But here, despite the overwhelming presence of the fortification and the ever-present military, there was a sense of belonging. Of having returned home, despite never having been in this part of her country before.

  She made her way back to the market, and caught furtive glances thrown her way. Eerie shivers raced along her spine as she caught some of the looks, only to have the curious hastily drop their eyes.

  It wasn’t the way people had stared before when her face had been newly injured. The bruising had faded to a dull yellow and she doubted it was noticeable from any distance. It was as if these people knew her from somewhere.

  She had never been here before. And yet familiar faces teased her memory with every other step. As if she had somehow slipped through time and was once again walking through the village of her childhood.

  An older woman suddenly stepped in front of her, and Morwyn pulled up short, staring at the careworn face and the untidy graying hair, and again the sensation of knowing shivered through her.

  “Mistress Morwyn?” The woman’s voice was scarcely above a whisper, as if she didn’t want anyone overhearing. “Is it truly you?”

  “Deheune?” The name tumbled from her lips as recollection flooded her mind. “What are you doing here?” The woman was from her village; before the invasion she had taken in laundry and mended clothing for many of the Druids who had no time to attend to such mundane tasks.

  Tears glistened in Deheune’s eyes and she grasped Morwyn’s hand, brushing a reverential kiss across her knuckles. “A lot of us left after that night the gods shook the earth and rained fury from the skies,” she said. “We’ve been here for almost a full turn of the wheel now.”

  The night Aeron had called on the sacred Spiral of Annwyn to annihilate all but his chosen few. The night the gods had risen against their High Druid and in retaliation for his betrayal had almost wiped out the populace of Cymru.

  The night Morwyn’s faith had begun to crumble.

  She took a deep breath. “It won’t be this way forever, Deheune.”

  Deheune gave a wistful smile, as if she knew otherwise. “As you say, mistress.” She inclined her head as a mark of respect. Peasants did not openly disagree with members of their ruling elite. Then she looked back up, and eagerness had replaced the disbelief. “I’m so happy you’re here, mistress.”

  Morwyn smil
ed uneasily and wished the woman would release her hand. “I’m glad you’re safe. Did all your kin escape?”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m so happy to see you. My daughter gave birth to a son four moons ago—my first grandchild.” Deheune fairly glowed with pride, and a chill shivered along Morwyn’s spine as suspicion bloomed.

  “May blessings be upon you.” Her lips were stiff. It had been so long since she’d uttered such words. And even so, the words uttered were incomplete. The startled look Deheune shot her reminded her forcibly of that.

  “I—” Deheune hesitated, as if Morwyn’s stunted blessing had disorientated her. “Mistress, you’re almost the first Druid any of us have seen since that night. We feared—we feared the Romans had slaughtered you all. All but our princess, but she was sacrificed to one of their officers to appease the foreign gods.”

  “I heard.” Gods, what else could she say? That Carys had turned her back on her people and gone willingly with her Roman? How would that help Deheune and all the others struggling to survive?

  And how could she blame Carys for leaving, when she and all the other Druids had abandoned their people also?

  At least Carys had retained the courage to follow her convictions, to follow Cerridwen, however misguided Morwyn thought she was.

  Finally Deheune released her hand. “You’re an acolyte of the great goddess.” Her voice was a whisper, almost lost against the noisy babble of the nearby market, the snort of horses and the panicked thud of Morwyn’s heart. “Truly, you’re the Morrigan’s chosen one. I know you blessed our babes before that terrible night, mistress. Will you bless my grandson in the ways of our ancestors? Welcome him into the arms of the Morrigan?”

  Nausea roiled in the pit of her stomach and she struggled not to let her horror show on her face. It was true; she had taken on the role of Druantia, their ancient Queen, and blessed new-born babes after the invasion. She wasn’t fully trained, but in all the ways that mattered she was. And she had passed on the Morrigan’s blessing in the ways they had been passed on for generations without number.