The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance

by Christina Phillips

Tension coiled, spiraling through her pussy, twisting low in her stomach. The lingering fragments of her restraint shredded, forgotten, as she tumbled over the edge. Her orgasm shuddered through her, rippling with abandonment through every particle of her convulsing body. Beyond the frenzied beat of her heart, the erratic pound of her blood, she heard Tacitus roar his release, and his hot seed pumped deep and flooded her quivering womb.

  Chapter 12

  The world slowly came back into focus. She stared up at Tacitus. He hadn’t instantly collapsed on top of her, as she had expected. Instead, his gaze meshed with hers and their breath mingled, uneven and jagged. A sensuous counterpoint to the erratic thunder of her heart.

  Her hand dropped to the mattress and her legs slid down his thighs. Her ankles hooked over the back of his knees and she couldn’t help giving him an exhausted smile as she once more contracted her pussy around him.

  His grin in response sent a peculiar shaft of pain through her chest. It lingered for a moment, oddly reassuring, before she forcibly smothered it. Not that she had needed to smother it. It had nothing to do with Tacitus or what they had just done. It was likely a strange reaction to the fact she had not eaten for more than a day.

  “Do you never do as you’re told?” He lazily traced one finger along the line of her face. Disbelief quivered at the realization that his touch set off tremors of renewed desire. Her few previous sexual encounters had always been enjoyable and she had invariably reached climax but she had never so utterly lost herself before. And while she’d had every intention of savoring the times she and Tacitus fucked it was, after all, only a means of securing his trust. She wasn’t supposed to have experienced the most mind-blowing orgasm of her life. And she certainly shouldn’t crave to have him again already.

  She couldn’t let him know his touch wielded such power. Allowing him access to her body was her strategy. She needed to remember that, and regain her focus. “Would you prefer I simply lay here like a log?”

  “I don’t believe I ever asked you to behave like a log.” He was still inside her, his fingers were playing with her tangled hair, and he looked completely relaxed as he continued to grin down at her. As if she was the most enchanting thing he had ever encountered.

  She didn’t know what she’d expected in the immediate aftermath of their joining but she certainly hadn’t expected such intimate jesting. Just because she found his bantering disarming was no excuse to encourage him.

  “Do you expect me to ask permission before I make any move?” And now she was responding. But how could she not? There was something deliciously seductive about this Roman that edged through her defenses. Was it truly so wrong to enjoy his company?

  Guilt whispered through her soul and she instantly stiffened. I’m not betraying the heritage of my foremothers. She was a prisoner and she would do whatever she needed to do in order to survive.

  Yet the excuse sounded false to her ears.

  His grin faded into a frown. “Does your shoulder hurt?” He sounded concerned. “I tried to avoid touching it.”

  It would be so much easier to convince herself she was doing this only for survival if Tacitus was not so oddly thoughtful at times.

  He was a Roman. He was not supposed to possess a thoughtful side to his nature. And yet so far his every action belied her long held beliefs about the barbarity of his race.

  Except she knew from personal, bloodied experience of the cruelty of Romans. She’d always believed it inherent in their nature. The fact that Tacitus didn’t appear to share his countrymen’s contempt for one not loyal to his Empire was disconcerting.

  She realized he was still waiting for her answer. “It does hurt,” she conceded. “But not because of anything we just did.”

  Carefully he eased out of her and she clamped her lips together to prevent a sigh of protest from escaping. He rolled onto his side, her uninjured side, and propped himself up on his forearm, his other hand cradling her waist.

  “Do you need some opium?”

  Take the opium. The thought pulsed into her brain, insistent and demanding and completely unexpected.

  “No.” The word burst from her mouth as unease weaved through her mind. How could she have become so desperate for the drug after just one time? “But tell me where you keep it, in case I need it when you’re not here.”

  Where had that come from? She didn’t want to know. Why would she want to know?

  Yet the insistence persisted. She needed to know.

  His thumb caressed the curve of her waist. “I can’t do that.” He didn’t sound regretful. “You might find a way to poison me in my sleep.”

  If she had the contents of her medicine bag, she could certainly find any number of ways to poison him. But it hadn’t even occurred to her that she could use the opium.

  “Then I shall suffer in silence.”

  “I can’t imagine you doing anything in silence.”

  She laughed. She hadn’t meant to. But she couldn’t help herself. “Even a gag would fail to silence me.”

  “I confess, I doubt I’d ever use a gag.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “I enjoyed hearing your gasps of impending climax too much.”

  His words shouldn’t affect her so. But no other man had ever said such things to her. And never in her wildest dreams had she imagined hearing such evocative confessions from a Roman officer.

  Everyone knew Romans were barbarous heathens who took what they wanted without a thought of the devastation they left behind. They were murderers, rapists and mutilators of all who opposed their filthy Empire.

  But when Tacitus looked at her with mingled desire and amusement, it was hard to recall his heritage. Hard to recall why she could never risk him discovering her true calling.

  Harder than she had imagined to view him purely as her enemy she needed to disarm. Just because he’d inexplicably chosen to pay for her healing, and treated her better than she had ever imagined a Roman capable of treating a woman, he would still crucify her if he discovered she was a Druid.

  Into the silence that followed his remark her stomach gave a loud, intrusive gurgle. Mortified, she clamped her hand over her stomach and her face flamed. But it didn’t help. Her stomach growled again, horribly demanding.

  “Gods.” Tacitus sounded on the verge of laughing again. “You must be starving, Nimue. I intended to feed you, not fuck you.”

  “Of course you did,” she said between gritted teeth. He didn’t take offense at her tone, merely flashed her a grin that did something entirely illicit to the pit of her stomach, before pushing himself from the bed and strolling to the casket.

  Unwillingly, she focused on his tight, perfectly formed arse. She had come. She had been more than adequately satisfied. So why did she still fantasize about having him? Even now, when she was still recovering from his primitive rutting technique, she was more interested in exploring his cock than filling her stomach.

  It was only because they had not taken the time to discover each other’s bodies. Next time, they would. And then she would be rid of this unwelcome fever that raged through her blood and caused her to lose all sense of focus.

  Then she could use him at nights to sate their mutual need, and forget about him during the days when she could regain her strength and strategize.

  Tacitus carried the basket of fruit and bread back to Nimue and smothered another grin at the haughty expression on her face. She was obviously mortified by the way her stomach had rumbled and yet she lay exactly as he’d left her on the bed, utterly unconcerned by her nakedness.

  His cock stirred, more than willing to fill her tight, luscious body once again. But next time he wouldn’t be distracted from his purpose by her provocative taunts. Next time he would explore her body with intimate dedication.

  Unfortunately, that time was not now. They would scarcely have time to eat before they needed to leave.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her wriggle upright, her breasts jiggling with every move she made. She didn’t
attempt to cover herself with his cloak. She obviously didn’t mind in the least that he found it all but impossible not to stare at her naked breasts and ripe, rosy nipples.

  Hunger gripped low in his gut, and it wasn’t hunger for the food he offered her.

  Abruptly he stood and marched back to his casket. If he didn’t cover temptation he would likely succumb once again, and that was intolerable. Every moment that passed increased the possibility of interruption from another tribune.

  “I don’t recognize half of what’s in this basket,” Nimue said, sounding put upon. “Do you have nothing that is not imported from your precious Rome?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and couldn’t help himself. “Yes. I have you.” His humor was short-lived when he trod on something sharp. Bending, he picked up one of Nimue’s earrings. “Besides, it’s not all imported. Just eat, unless you wish your stomach to continue to complain for the rest of the day.”

  When she didn’t respond to his taunt, satisfaction curled through him. Now she accepted that she belonged to him, now that he truly possessed her, her sharp tongue had mellowed. Certainly, he didn’t want her to agree with his every word—he doubted she would ever do such a thing. But finally she would realize acceptable boundaries.

  He retrieved his key ring that had fallen to the ground along with his tunic, and began to unlock the casket. It was already unlocked. Frowning, he stared at it. Surely he hadn’t forgotten to lock it last night, after he’d put the embroidered Celtic bag inside?

  He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d taken the bag after Marcellus had appropriated the contents. He didn’t have any use for it. It certainly wasn’t because of the insidious sliver of doubt that the bag belonged to Nimue.

  There was no possible connection between Nimue and the bag. Because if the bag was hers then she had been traveling with Caratacus’ queen. That would point to her being connected to the royal family and possibly having information on the Briton king’s whereabouts. If she was suspected of being the healer who had tended to the princess’ injury, Nimue would be interrogated. The fact she was his slave wouldn’t save her from that.

  He had vowed to protect her from his fellow countrymen. Just because Nimue had healer knowledge didn’t make her the owner of that bag.

  But still he had hidden it, to prevent any further investigation into who might have once possessed it.

  Another glance over his shoulder confirmed Nimue was eating, even though she had a pained expression on her face. He turned back to the casket and lifted the lid. Under the top layer of linen the bag remained. It didn’t look as if anything had been disturbed. Surely if Nimue had taken advantage of discovering an unlocked casket, she would have rummaged through it? And if that bag had belonged to her, wouldn’t she have taken it?

  Still frowning, he found what he was searching for and locked the casket before sliding the key ring back onto his finger and dropping her earring on the lid.

  “Here.” He laid the plain white tunic over her feet. “You can wear that until I find you something more suitable.”

  She barely gave it a glance. “I won’t wear it. I’ll wear my own gown.”

  He paused in the process of helping himself to some bread. “Your gown is ruined. There’s nothing else available until we return to the garrison.” There were many markets in the settlement that had sprung up around the garrison. He’d easily be able to find her something more suitable.

  “I don’t care.” She appeared supremely unimpressed that he was offering her one of his own short tunics to wear. “I’d rather wear a tattered rag that is my own than something of Roman origin.”

  Irritation prickled through him. Why did she have to disagree with everything?

  “It’s covered in blood and filth and needs repair. If you wish, you may keep it, but you’re not wearing it until it’s been cleaned.”

  Finally she looked at him, her resentment clear on her face. “Of course I wish to keep it. It’s all the clothing I possess.” She waved her arm at him. “What about my bracelets? Do you have some obnoxious Roman jewelry you wish to exchange them for?”

  Anyone would think, by her attitude, that he’d just told her she would remain naked for the rest of the journey. Then, he could understand her anger. But he’d offered her a clean tunic. One of his own clean tunics, a gesture that would draw unwelcome attention from his fellow officers who would be as likely to offer a slave their own tunic as they would offer their horse.

  “Nimue.” It was a warning to be silent. Once again she was pushing too far.

  “Tacitus.” She mimicked his tone and maintained eye contact. By the gods, did she speak to all men in this manner? Or was it just him?

  “If you prefer, I’ll have your gown burned. Then the question will no longer arise.”

  Her fingers clenched around the bread she was holding. He wanted to maintain his rigid sense of injustice at her ingratitude, but it was hard when she was naked and her tangled hair tumbled over her tempting breasts. And when her bound shoulder was a constant reminder of how she had been injured.

  None of which improved his mood.

  “So you wish me to dress as one of your Roman noblewomen.” The derision in her voice was unmistakable. “It will take more than a gown to make me a Roman.”

  “I have no wish to transform you into a Roman noblewoman. I doubt Juno herself could manage such a miracle.” He snatched his discarded tunic from the ground and pulled it on. “And why you imagine I have women’s gowns in my casket I fail to comprehend. You’ll wear my tunic until such time as I decree otherwise.”

  Gods. He sounded like his father. The thought caused a hard knot to form in his chest.

  She glowered at him for a moment longer and then transferred her glare to the cursed tunic.

  “Very well.” Her voice was haughty. “I’ll wear your tunic on the condition you don’t burn my gown.”

  She was giving him ultimatums? He stared at her in stunned disbelief, not only at her audacity but at her sudden change of mind.

  He could remind her she was in no position to issue demands. But what did it matter? She had acquiesced to his command. It would be easier to simply allow her to believe she had gained a small victory.

  “Agreed.” Thank the gods no one would ever know of this conversation. He would be ridiculed throughout Rome for being unable to keep his own slave in check.

  The thought clawed through his brain. She was only a slave. But she was still unaware. All he needed to do was keep her in ignorance for another day. It shouldn’t be difficult. No legionary would dare approach her and his fellow officers wouldn’t engage her attention without his permission.

  She sniffed and picked at the linen between finger and thumb.

  “I need to consult with your healer.”

  He shot her a sharp glance. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” But she had told him her shoulder hurt. And he hadn’t thought to pursue it further because she hadn’t complained further. “Let me look.” He hoped the stitches were still intact.

  She looked at his hand, as he hovered over the bandage, as if she had no idea what he thought he was doing.

  “I’m not talking about my wound.” She pushed his hand aside with one disdainful finger. “I need to flush out my womb.”

  “You need…to what?” Had he heard correctly? Surely not. Flush out her womb? The implication of what she might mean sent shudders through him.

  She scowled as if she thought he was being deliberately obtuse.

  “Cleanse my womb of your seed, Tacitus. I have no desire to bear your bastard.” She made it sound as if that was the worst thing imaginable. In the outer reaches of his mind he wondered that he should be offended by her obvious disgust at such an outcome but it was a vague, insubstantial thought. Because his senses were reeling with incredulity that a woman was discussing such things with him in the first place.

  A woman’s fertility was none of his concern. Not until he married. The lovers he’d taken in the past had n
ever breathed a word about the possibility of conceiving his child, and he’d never inquired as to what they did to prevent such event from occurring.

  In truth, he had never considered the matter at all. He’d taken it for granted that the women would take the necessary precautions. That was what women did. It was only a man’s wife who was subject to his scrutiny.

  And a man’s slave. But he had never taken a slave before. Had never even been with a prostitute, and so the question of using a sheath to protect his health—and prevent conception—had never arisen.

  His glance slid to her belly. Was it possible she had conceived his child? The thought chilled his blood sufficiently to diminish his erection. Despite his privileged upbringing, he’d been acutely aware of the difference in status between him and his many half-sisters. He’d never wish such prejudice to touch his own child.

  Nimue’s child.

  “How likely is that…outcome?” He swallowed and mentally girded his loins. Perhaps she was already protected. Perhaps she was merely wishing to be absolutely certain.

  She gave an impatient sigh and shrugged her uninjured shoulder.

  “It is not likely.” She sounded disgruntled. “I’m still in my moon quarter so conception should be impossible. I merely wish to be prepared for the future.”

  Her moon quarter? Unease crawled along his spine. This was not talk meant for a man’s ears. How could she even broach this subject with him—and without a shred of embarrassment?

  She was his slave. Who else could she speak of it to?

  Slaves never mentioned such things to their masters. But then, Nimue was no ordinary slave and he had no wish to be her master in that sense of the word.

  For the last nine months, he’d been the second-in-command of the Legion; had strategized with the commander and led troops into battle. None of it compared to facing this woman and speaking of matters he had no business discussing with anyone.

  But he had no choice.

  “I’ll make the necessary arrangements for the future.” He knew he was scowling but it was the only way he managed to push the words along his throat. He’d speak to Marcellus. Face the inevitable mockery. But better that than having Nimue consult with his friend on such intimacies.