“She’s not staying in here overnight.” And he needed to get to the quaestorium. There was no doubt in his mind he could negotiate the purchase of this Celt with the administrator. With his connections and the price he was prepared to offer, along with the fact the slave in question was injured and therefore damaged goods, the administrator would have no cause to refuse.
Only then would she be safe from the fate that awaited every other female slave rounded up this day.
She would also be safe from his cousin. And his commander.
“I don’t run a brothel.” Irritation soured Marcellus’ words. “Any man found abusing one of my patients goes under the lash.”
Not if the abuser was a fellow officer. But it was irrelevant. She was not going to stay here overnight.
“I need to report in.” But not until he’d settled this matter. Only when the Celt legally belonged to him would he report to the commander of his Legion.
“I’m sure you do.” It was obvious Marcellus knew exactly what Tacitus had in mind. “And in the meantime you expect me to ensure your concubine remains inviolate.”
“She’s not my concubine.” The words were a growl. Because if she hadn’t been injured, if he had persuaded her to surrender into his protection, he had the feeling he might well have made her his concubine for the duration of their affair.
Of course he would. It would have been the only way to ensure no other man took what he had already claimed.
Marcellus stared at him. “You risk opening the wound if you have her tonight.”
Tacitus had no intention of having her tonight. Irked that Marcellus felt the need to even state such an obvious warning he merely maintained eye contact until the other man shrugged in obvious irritation.
“Go and conduct your business. I’ll ensure it’s known the slave belongs to you, and should any harm befall her, the mighty Lucius Marius Tacitus will not allow it to go unpunished.”
The words were caustic but the pledge satisfactory. With one last fleeting glance at his Celt, Tacitus left the tent to face the unsavory task of buying her.
Chapter 4
Nimue hitched in a harsh breath and blackness engulfed her. A dream. A memory.
A vision?
Already the details were fading, becoming obscure and fluttering through her mind like petals in a summer breeze. Strong arms held her against a solid chest and now she became aware of moving.
She was being carried. Instantly her eyes flew open, only to be confronted by an expanse of white tunic stretched across impressive shoulders. The Roman. Jumbled images cascaded across her mind. They had spoken by the stream. She had been shot. And then…
Then what? The uncanny sensation of urgency, of needing to accomplish something of utmost importance gnawed the edges of her mind. She could almost recall and yet the details eluded her. And what was worse, she almost did not care. Her senses were pleasantly numbed.
She shifted and tried to see his face, but his hold on her was so secure she could scarcely move at all.
“Be still.” His deep voice rumbled in his chest and caused tremors to flutter deep in her womb. “We’re almost at my quarters. Then you can rest.”
“Rest.” Her voice sounded strange to her ears. Only then did she realize his hand grazed the curve of her breast as he held her against his body. She should have been enraged. But instead, heat radiated from the contact, spreading across her skin and tightening her nipple until the ache consumed her entire body.
She groaned, eyelids fluttering. She wanted his hand cradling her breast, his thumb circling her throbbing nipple. It was more than a want. It was an overriding need.
Her left arm was immobilized, and so she dragged her right arm up from where it nestled between the length of her body and the Roman’s. Goddess, if she didn’t know better, she would imagine he was a fearless warrior. For surely only a warrior could possess a body so irresistibly hard and sculpted.
She flattened her knuckles against the soft linen of his tunic, uncaring of the fabric. Wanting only to caress the heat of his naked flesh. Vaguely she wondered at his lack of armor. Not that it mattered. She didn’t want his armor coming between them.
With a sigh, she nuzzled her face against his shoulder and ripples of lust rolled low in her belly. Pleasurable and somehow illicit although she couldn’t quite fathom why that should be so.
“Will you be resting with me?” Her voice still sounded odd, as if her tongue could not quite articulate the words. The back of her hand grazed his throat and she felt him swallow, the action impossibly arousing.
“No.”
Languidly she brushed her fingers over the uncompromising line of his jaw. He was rough, and chafed her skin. Entranced, she rubbed her hand along his jaw again, and again the roughness caused tingles of desire to dance through her blood.
“Why not?” If only she could see his face properly. From recollection, his face was worth looking at. She was sure his body was too.
“Because I’m on duty.” For a fleeting moment, he glanced down at her, and the blatant lust glowing in his eyes caused raw need to bloom deep between her thighs.
Her lips parted, but it didn’t help her deprived lungs because every jagged breath held a subtle hint of foreign spices that fogged her reason and heightened her desire. Tendrils of fire wove through her blood, curled around her nipples and flickered with sensuous intent through her quivering sheath. He wouldn’t chose duty above her when she craved for his touch on her burning skin. When she ached to be filled by his tongue and his cock.
The image pounded against her temples and again she moaned. She imagined him spreading her thighs and impaling his length inside her wet folds. If he didn’t take her soon she would shatter from unfulfilled need.
“Are you in pain?” Once again he was looking straight ahead. She turned her wrist and dug her nails into his face, and satisfaction spiked when once again his gaze clashed with hers.
“Yes.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “When you’re settled, I will administer more opium.”
Opium. The word drifted through her mind, but failed to grasp hold. It was unimportant. All that mattered was that this hard, rough-jawed warrior stripped her naked and took her until the raw, primitive need hammering through her veins was sated.
“When we’re settled,” she dragged in a rasping breath as he paused, “you will administer to me.”
Jaw rigid, Tacitus entered his tent. The flap remained opened to give him light, but unfortunately, it also ensured little privacy. Not that the legionary stationed outside would dare breathe a word of what he might overhear, but right now that didn’t give Tacitus much comfort.
“I’m going to lay you down.” But instead of following through, he remained staring at her upturned face, at her drug-hazed eyes and her seductive smile. Her left arm, wrapped in a sling, rested across her waist. Her right hand, that had been pressed between their bodies, now cradled his jaw and her tempting body curved against him, as if she didn’t find him repulsive in the least.
His cock thickened, balls tightened. Gods, how easy it would be to lay her down and take what she so unknowingly offered. He knew her inhibitions were lowered and no longer did she see him as her enemy. She saw only a man she wanted.
A man the opium wanted.
Breath hissed between his clenched teeth. It was the opium talking. He knew that. But he couldn’t drag his gaze from her. Couldn’t summon the strength to sever their connection.
The tip of her tongue slid over her lips. He ached to taste those lips, to plunder her mouth, to thrust so deep inside her welcoming cleft she screamed out his name.
She didn’t even know his name.
“Yes.” Her voice was a breathy whisper. “And then I can watch you strip. I long to see your naked body, to hold your cock and cradle your balls in the palm of my hand.”
Her drug-induced promises incinerated his senses. Gods, no woman had ever uttered such words to him. No woman would have dared. Even t
his one would not, had she been in full possession of her mind.
But still they thundered through his blood. Pounded against his temples. The image was carved into his brain, of her on her knees, holding him. Cradling him. Scrutinizing him.
It was headier than the most expensive aphrodisiac from the East. Headier than opium? The thought barely registered. Because all that registered was the woman in his arms, offering herself to him.
Chapter 5
Still holding her in his arms Tacitus lowered his head toward her, no longer caring of the open tent flap, the proximity of the legionary or the fact he was still on duty. All he could see, all he could feel was the woman nestled so seductively against his chest, her breasts pressed against him while her palm caressed his jaw.
Her lips parted and her breath was sweet, like incense. Blood pounded, pulses hammered yet with rigid restraint, he brushed the most chaste of kisses across those tempting lips.
So soft. So full of promise. So deliciously responsive. She lifted her head and instead of breaking contact, he captured her lips once again. Nothing chaste about this kiss. Their mouths clung together as if nothing else in the world existed.
She wound her hand around the nape of his neck. Her fingers speared through his hair, scraping across the base of his skull. Desire spiked through his groin, her touch as potent as if she had grasped his cock, and restraint splintered.
He slid his tongue inside her open mouth and she sucked on him, sudden and hard and unbelievably shocking. He withdrew, a slow slide against her wet flesh then thrust into her again, teasing the roof of her mouth, and claimed the strangled moans that vibrated from her throat.
Fingernails dug into his scalp, primitive and wild. His hand closed over the mound of her breast, filling his palm. Her nipple was hard through the material of her gown, and with a primal growl, he rubbed the tips of his fingers over the erect nub. Backward and forward. Increasing the pressure. She squirmed in his arms, her muffled moans of pleasure stoking his need.
He needed to lay her down. Rip off her gown. Explore her writhing body.
The exhilarating vision of her laying naked on his bed hammered in his mind. She was willing. She did not know she was a slave. He could fuck her, make her come, give her such pleasure that when she discovered the truth she wouldn’t feel as if she had been used at all.
Her sweet taste slid insidiously into his senses, heady and somehow illicit. The tips of their tongues touched, and it was mindlessly erotic.
Somehow, he stumbled to the bed. Curse this primitive camp. He wanted his own bed, but this makeshift one would have to do. Carefully he lowered her, his mouth still claiming hers—or was she claiming his?—and as he laid her down the light diminished.
He scarcely noticed. Tearing his mouth from her, he panted down into her face, relishing the jagged gasps of her breath, the way her fingers dug into the back of his neck, the way her breasts heaved beneath her soft gown.
The way her left arm was immobilized in a sling.
For a moment he stared, uncomprehending. She was injured and he had been about to fuck her?
“Roman.” The word was scarcely above a whisper, and wrapped around his reeling senses like a seductive embrace of purest silk. Her right hand slid from his neck, over his shoulder and along his arm. It was a light caress and yet as arousing as if she slid her naked body along him instead.
Gods. What was he thinking? Marcellus had warned him not to have her tonight. She was injured. She was under the influence of opium.
She was his slave.
He couldn’t move. He remained kneeling on the floor beside her as her hand curled around his wrist. The light was oddly dimmed and yet he could see her delicate features and the fragile outline of her enticing body. And still he could not find the strength of will to stand up and leave.
“Are you man enough for me, Roman?” Her words were heated, provocative. A blatant challenge. “I’ve never had a barbarian before.” She smiled, as if that thought gave her great amusement and he battled against the renewed lust that thundered through his blood at her taunts.
“You will lie here and rest.” It was an order. Any other woman—any other man—would have instantly quailed. But this Celt, this slave—who didn’t even know she was a slave—merely offered him another sultry smile and pulled on his hand.
He didn’t resist.
She dragged his hand between her thighs and pressed him against her slick core. Air hissed between his clenched teeth as her feminine dampness caressed his fingers, as she rolled her hips and a breathy sigh escaped her lips.
“Don’t you want me, Roman?” She increased pressure on his hand and of their own volition his fingers pushed against her soft gown, seeking and finding the wet opening of her welcoming pussy.
Primal need thudded through his veins and tightened his rock-hard balls. This was madness. Feverishly his fingers bunched up her gown, exposing her thighs, until he gripped the material and wrenched it up to her waist.
Honey-blonde curls crowned her glistening lips, her flesh plump and pink and deliriously tantalizing. Mesmerized by the sheer eroticism of how she angled her hips toward him and by her evocative scent that caused his cock to thicken, he couldn’t remember why taking her was such a bad idea.
He trailed the tips of his fingers over her stomach and then lower, teasing her soft curls. She sighed in evident pleasure and collapsed back onto the pallet as if she no longer possessed the strength to entice him. But he needed no additional enticement. Everything he needed was here, between her spread thighs.
She was wet and hot. His finger slid along her cleft, her soft folds promising a wild, unforgettable ride. Breath rasped along his throat, need pounded through his groin, sanity sank beyond the fiery horizon.
She was willing. She was ready. And she was his.
The final thought pounded with primitive possessiveness through his mind, through his soul. She was his and no other man had the right to touch her. No other man had the right to look at her naked body, breathe her heady scent, or hear her gasps of impending climax. Somehow, he dragged his gaze from her desire-swollen lips, up the length of her prone body, expecting to see her watching him.
Her head had fallen back onto the pallet. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. For a moment, he couldn’t comprehend the evidence before him, but her sudden lack of response was clear enough.
She had fallen asleep.
Disbelief hammered through his veins, but it was muted by the lust that still thundered in his blood. She was asleep, and he was so hard he feared he might rupture.
His fingers curled into a fist against her silken slit. Just moments longer and he would have been inside her. The thought of being clasped by her tight sheath, of her legs wrapped around his waist, of her fingernails scraping along his naked back caused streaks of agonized pleasure to burn his cock.
But she was unconscious.
He reared back, his breath harsh against his clenched teeth. By the gods, he was no better than his commander. No better than my father. Bitter disgust curdled his gut and he jerked her gown back over her thighs. Removing temptation from his vision.
Except the image of her seductive nakedness was branded inside his brain.
He flexed his fingers, and her arousal drifted in the air. Mocking his restraint. He struggled against the overpowering urge to grip his cock and find some measure of solitary satisfaction. Yet the thought of doing so while his Celt lay oblivious, felt wrong. Even if he didn’t touch her while he brought himself to climax, he couldn’t shake the feeling that to pleasure himself while she remained unaware was vulgar. As if his act of self-gratification would somehow defile her.
Fuck the gods. He lurched to his feet and glared at her peaceful face. He was cursed with a conscience few of his peers possessed and until this moment, it had never unduly concerned him.
But now, because of his convictions, he couldn’t wake his own slave. Couldn’t take what his body demanded. Couldn’t—wouldn’t
. Was there even a difference? He was so fucking hard he couldn’t even think straight.
He grabbed a blanket and dropped it over her, not trusting himself to touch her in case his tenuous control shattered. Then he wheeled around and saw the tent flap had been closed.
His mood darkened further and he wrenched it open and marched outside. The legionary didn’t glance in his direction. Just as well. The way he felt right now, eye contact would be an excellent excuse for a fight.
“No one enters.” He sounded rabid.
“Sir.” The legionary remained looking straight ahead. But how much had he seen before the bastard had closed the tent flap?
How dare he close the tent flap? Yet if he hadn’t, his Celt would have been on public display to any man who passed by.
The thought fed his rage. Pressure throbbed against his temples; his balls were on fire.
For one heart-thundering moment, he considered returning to his Celt and taking what, by law, was his.
He turned, secured the tent, slung the legionary one last black glare before marching off. He needed to report to his commander and discover if it was, indeed, Caratacus’ queen and daughter who had been found.
But duty was the last thing on his mind. Because all his mind could conjure up was the image of his half naked Celt writhing beneath his questing fingers.
“Tacitus.” The commander waved his hand in an imperious gesture for Tacitus to approach. The social meeting was being held outside the commander’s tent, to take advantage of the lingering twilight. “Come, sit down. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Blandus was already there, seated on a chair beside a table covered in unrolled documents. Tacitus sat. At least now his cursed erection had begun to diminish. It was still fucking uncomfortable, though.
The commander sat and slung him an amused glance. Tacitus could see nothing amusing in the situation. But since it was impossible for the commander to guess the extent of or reason for Tacitus’ current frustration, clearly he was missing something vital.
The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance Page 63