Even before the thought finished forming, he saw her forehead crease, saw her preparing to once again dispute his word. But before her evident displeasure at his decision found voice, he heard the tent flap being ripped open, heard his commander make a sordid jest.
“Cover yourself.” He barked the order at her, grabbing the edge of his cloak as he did so and for once, she didn’t argue. Instead, she wrapped his cloak around her, gripping the edges together at her throat so her body was entirely concealed.
Tacitus swung back and glared as his commander strolled into the tent. The commander offered him a knowing grin before transferring his leer to Nimue.
His grin slid from his face and an all too familiar look gleamed in the commander’s eyes. Infuriated, Tacitus stepped in front of Nimue and folded his arms. With clear reluctance, the commander refocused his gaze on Tacitus.
“You’re behind schedule.” It was a reprimand. In front of Nimue. But as far as the commander was concerned, Nimue was only a slave. And one could say anything in front of a slave.
It did nothing to alleviate the simmering anger roiling through Tacitus’ blood. Especially since the rebuke was deserved. He’d had no business taking Nimue when he was still on duty. And yet after she’d regained consciousness, he’d forgotten everything but the need to possess her.
“Sir.” It could have been worse. Blandus could have accompanied his commander.
Instead of leaving, the commander strolled farther into the tent, his attention on the bed. Tacitus stepped forward, blocking his advance. “Is that all, sir?”
The older man regarded him. There was a calculating look on his face, an expression Tacitus had witnessed in the past but never before had it been directed at him, and never had it caused his gut to tighten with such rigid distaste.
“We’ll talk later.” The commander’s voice was deceptively mild. He turned to leave then paused and glanced over his shoulder. “I understand, now, why Blandus was so pissed you reneged on your deal.” He shot Tacitus a mocking smile. “Don’t allow it to cause any professional ill-feeling. You understand?”
He understood perfectly. Blandus had complained to his uncle who, having now seen Nimue, appreciated the situation.
But that wasn’t the reason why the savage urge to smash his fist into his commander’s face thudded through his blood. His hands fisted by his sides, his muscles tensed in readiness for battle.
His cousin held no threat. But after seeing Nimue, the casual interest in his commander’s eyes had been replaced by something far more dangerous.
It was no longer mild amusement that Tacitus had bought a slave girl. Just as Tacitus had known he would, his commander lusted after Nimue.
Chapter 13
Since Tacitus had no intention of allowing Nimue out of his sight during the journey, he once again defied convention and had her ride with him on his horse. But then again, she belonged to him. She was his personal responsibility. She could no sooner travel with the other slaves, who trudged in chains at the rear of the convoy, as she could ride with the injured legionaries in the medical wagons.
The unsettling notion that he was making too many excuses for his actions crossed his mind, but he banished it with the contempt it deserved. He wasn’t making excuses. There was no other option.
No other officer made any comment, and if they considered the fact she was wearing his cloak a breach of protocol, they kept their thoughts to themselves.
Nimue sat in front of him, ramrod straight, as proud as a heathen queen. He wore his spare cloak, and had insisted she wrap his other one around her. She displayed far too much flesh wearing only his tunic. He’d been surprised she hadn’t argued, but also relieved. He hadn’t felt up to explaining his reasoning. How could he tell her he didn’t want his commander to see her naked thighs as she straddled the saddle?
Even now, on the open road, he could detect a tantalizing hint of the wild, abandoned sex that soiled the cloak she wore.
Involuntarily, his arm tightened around her waist. The tempting notion of fucking her once again blurred his vision and thickened his cock. So much for not thinking of her during the day. But how could he not when she was so close to him? When, despite her frigid posture, the curve of her delectable bottom nestled against his erection?
He exhaled and tried not to think of her smooth, rounded buttocks. Tried not to imagine her bent over a couch, thighs spread, naked and willing and ready for him.
Tried, and failed. Gods, it was going to be an agonizingly long journey before they camped for the night.
Nimue glared straight ahead as the Roman Legions charged through her land. And she was at the front of the onslaught, held securely in Tacitus’ arm, as if he had every right to hold her so possessively.
As they had started this journey, she’d caught sight of the other prisoners. They were chained together like animals, and herded into obedience.
She’d been torn between relief and horror. Relief, that so many of the women and children who had been on the mountain had apparently escaped the Romans. And horror that not all of them had.
The queen and princess had not been with the other women and children. It would seem the Romans knew exactly who they had captured, and were intent on ensuring their royal prisoners arrived without further harm at their destination.
Her stomach had churned at her fleeting glimpse of the captives. A shaming relief streaked through her when she realized she didn’t know any of them, but that vanished instantly. It didn’t matter if they were from a different tribe than hers. They had all come together with one goal in mind. To rid Cymru and Britain of the invaders.
And now they were enslaved to the Roman Empire.
How had she escaped that fate? If another Roman had found her by the stream, would she be chained with the other captives now? A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach at the thought. But the question echoed in her mind.
It was more than the fact Tacitus wanted her to warm his bed. He—any of the Romans—could take any of the enslaved they desired, and the Celts would have no choice in the matter.
She was the daughter of a high-ranking noble. Royal blood flowed in her foremothers’ ancestry. She was a chosen one of the Moon Goddess herself, descended from powerful Druids in an unbroken line since the beginning of Creation.
Arianrhod—or perhaps even Arawn, the lord of the Otherworld—had ensured she remained free for a purpose. So she could complete her mission, return the queen to Caratacus and then they could continue the fight against the Romans.
They finally halted as dusk hovered overhead. She dismounted and ignored the tremors of lust that assailed her as Tacitus’ strong hands spanned her waist in unwanted assistance.
She turned to face him and with seeming reluctance, he released her.
“Remain here. I will return shortly.” But he didn’t leave instantly, perhaps waiting for her to confirm obedience to his command.
He would wait forever. She tightened her one-handed grip on his cloak, hating how his scent permeated the scarlet wool yet at the same time offered her a sense of false security.
“Your Legion is diminished.” Was it a tactical error? Somehow she couldn’t believe the Romans had accidentally lost a vast portion of their numbers. Yet it was quite obviously so.
Tacitus looked taken aback by her observation. It was obvious he hadn’t imagined she would notice such things.
“Only marginally.” For a moment she thought he was going to say more, to elaborate, but instead he brushed his fingers over her tangled hair. “Don’t attempt to escape. I can’t guarantee your safety outside this camp.”
He turned and she couldn’t drag her fascinated gaze from the way his cloak swung about his muscled legs, nor the arrogant way he marched through the legionaries. Only when he finally disappeared did she heave a silent sigh and sweep her glance around the glade.
She was desperate to relieve herself. And she had no intention of waiting for Tacitus to produce a loathsome bucket. Ste
althily she made her way to the tree line. She would be only a few moments.
No one accosted her. No one gave her more than a fleeting glance. If she had intended to escape, who would stop her?
The thought hammered through her brain. Would anyone try? How far could she get before Tacitus returned and began a search?
As she slid into the edge of the forest, the thought persisted. She was under no illusion that all these Romans and their mercenaries knew Tacitus considered her his personal property. And yet clearly he had not given orders that she was to be prevented from wandering as she pleased.
Peering through the barrier of bushes at the activity as a camp was constructed, that knowledge glowed, bright with promise. She couldn’t escape tonight. Not only was she ill-prepared but she still had to find the queen and princess.
But she’d discovered something valuable. Something she intended to use. Tacitus trusted her to obey his command. When the time was right, she would use that trust to secure the freedom of the Briton queen and her daughter.
Feeling considerably more cheerful with an empty bladder and new possibilities of escape, she stepped back into the glade. A shadow loomed from the darkness of the trees and her heart slammed against her ribs in sudden alarm. Has someone been watching me?
“Don’t you know how dangerous it is for a Celt to wander alone out here?” The voice was mocking, accented and she couldn’t place it at all.
“Who are you?” Her voice was haughty. She would never show how his sudden appearance had so badly startled her.
He moved from the shadows and she glared at him. He was no Roman but one of their auxiliaries. How dare he creep up on her?
“I’m the one who saved the worthless skin of the Roman you intended to gut.”
Jagged thoughts pounded through her brain. She had never intended to gut Tacitus, but she remembered advancing toward him, dagger poised.
“You shot me.” She didn’t feel particularly angry at him. She was, after all, his enemy and in his shoes would likely have done the same to save one of her own.
“I did.” Although the sun was sinking onto the western horizon, the twilight illuminated the glade and she could clearly see the dislike ingrained in the auxiliary’s features. “Next time I’ll ride away.”
What did he mean? That he regretted shooting her? Why would he regret something like that?
“Bearach.” The voice was sharp, authoritative. “What in the gods’ names are you doing?”
Another auxiliary. Nimue drew the cloak around her more securely and stiffened her spine further. If Tacitus came upon her now he would never believe she hadn’t been trying to escape. He’d jump to the conclusion these two barbarians had prevented her, and then she could forget about her tribune extending even a modicum of trust toward her again.
“I’m doing nothing, Gervas,” Bearach said. “Isn’t that right, Celt? I haven’t touched a hair on your head.”
“Enough.” Gervas towered over her, but his attention was focused on the other man. “It’s not the girl’s fault. Get out of here before her master discovers to whom she speaks.”
Her master? Nimue shot Gervas a glare of intense dislike, but he missed it since he was entirely focused on Bearach.
Bearach gave a bitter laugh. “He must value you highly, Celt. Not many Roman officers go so far as to buy a foreign slave when her charms can be had for free. You must be a mind-blowing fuck.”
“Go.” Gervas didn’t raise his voice, but it was enough for Bearach to turn and stalk back to camp.
Nimue glowered after his retreating back, his words pummeling inside her skull. She didn’t believe him. Not for a moment. Tacitus had not bought her.
“You must forgive his uncouth tongue,” Gervas said, indicating with a sweep of his arm that he expected her to precede him back to camp. She remained rooted to the spot, and could do nothing to prevent the waves of mortified heat from pounding through her body and flooding her cheeks. Am I a slave?
Gervas shot her a glance. “He meant nothing by it. He’s merely…irked by his punishment.”
She tilted her head and gave Gervas a proud look. “So he lied about my status?”
Gervas narrowed his eyes and lowered his arm. For a moment he stared at her, assessing her, and she maintained eye contact. Finally he exhaled a slow breath and took a step back.
“You didn’t know.” It wasn’t a question. But his words answered so much. Too much. Her stomach cramped and only by sheer force of will did she remain utterly still and not curl up with humiliated disbelief. She was a slave.
“I was not paraded on the block.” The words choked her. She’d been so smugly certain she had escaped that fate. So sure she was Tacitus’ special prisoner. But what was a special prisoner except a sex slave?
Nausea roiled. Somehow, while she had been unconscious, she’d been put up for sale. And Tacitus had bought her.
As if she was nothing more than a horse, or a goat, or a piece of fine jewelry he admired.
“No.” There was a thread of sympathy in Gervas’ voice. She wanted to cut his throat for his sympathy. I don’t need a filthy auxiliary’s sympathy. “You were never with the other slaves. The tribune bought you after he brought you back from the mountain.”
Chapter 14
Nimue couldn’t look at the auxiliary. She couldn’t bear to risk seeing the sympathy in his voice reflected in his eyes. Instead she glared straight ahead, to where the camp was constructed, and attempted to smother the pain coiling through her breast.
Just because she was Tacitus’ slave didn’t change anything. She would still earn his trust. Still make plans to find the queen and princess and ensure their escape. The fact she was his slave made no difference in how she felt about the relationship she had with Tacitus.
He was a Roman. She was a Druid. And yet no matter how logically she tried to look at the situation the knowledge that she was his slave changed everything.
He had intended to enslave her from the moment he’d come across her on the mountain. And when she’d been shot, he’d taken instant advantage. How naïve of her to believe, for even one moment, that he could have intended anything else.
What else could there have possibly been? She would never have gone with him willingly. But her wounded pride recoiled from the truth.
She hadn’t for one instant seriously considered the possibility Tacitus had bought her. Nothing in her life had prepared her for such an ignoble revelation. Druids were tortured and murdered by the Romans. They weren’t kept as slaves.
“I see.” Her voice showed none of her turmoil. Her spine was so rigid she feared it might shatter. Tacitus might have reduced her to the status of a slave in his world, but she was not of his world. She would never be of his world. And in her own, she was not only freeborn. She was a noble and the blood of the gods flowed in her veins.
“The tribune saved you from a worse fate.” There was a hint of distaste in the auxiliary’s voice. “If he hadn’t bought you from the quaestorium you would be with the other captives. And they are all destined to be bought by the slave traders back at the garrison.”
A shiver trickled along her spine. She knew of the brutality of slave traders and the possibility of being under their control chilled her soul.
“I imagine that fate waits for me, also.” Her voice was as icy as her blood. Arianrhod hadn’t prevented Nimue’s enslavement but the Goddess had given her enough freedom to complete her mission. It was enough. Her wounded pride was nothing but an indulgence.
“No.” This time when Gervas indicated she should head back to the camp she forced her feet to move. “He’d never recoup the price he paid if he sold you to traders. Continue as you have, and I’m certain the tribune will remain entertained by you for some time yet.”
She stopped dead and slung him a freezing glare. “I’m not a whore who entertains men for their benefit.” But she was a slave, and Tacitus had bought her for sex. If that didn’t make her a whore, what did?
Gervas gave her a calculating look, as if he saw far more than he should. “I’m from Gaul. Unlike the Romans, I’m not blinded to innate strength by gender alone. Your beauty has captivated the tribune. That and your apparent fragility are your biggest weapons if you want to survive.”
Once again, she moved toward the camp. Her weapons of choice were her dagger and her bow. She relied on speed, on surprise, because in hand-to-hand combat she knew she stood little chance against a male warrior.
Never before had her looks or delicate bone structure been considered assets when it came to battle strategies.
“I wonder why you tell me such things.”
“I’m a warrior. And I recognize a fellow warrior when I see one.”
They neared Tacitus’ horse. She glanced at the Gaul who walked by her side, close enough for confidential conversation yet not close enough to raise undue comment from any passing legionary.
“You would have shot me too, wouldn’t you?”
A brief smile touched his lips. “Had we been alone, yes. In the presence of a Roman tribune?” For a fleeting moment he caught her gaze. “No. Their women aren’t warriors. When confronted by one who looks as you do, they cannot even conceive such a thing.”
Gervas inclined his head, a mark of respect, of farewell, and as she resumed her place by Tacitus’ horse, she watched him until he disappeared from view.
To survive, Gervas expected her to disarm her Roman master with her face and her body and a sweet-talking tongue, until he believed her incapable of making any decision without his prior approval.
She gritted her teeth. What was so different between the Gaul’s expectation of her strategies and the ones she had already formulated?
Nothing.
Except she’d never thought of Tacitus as her master. Never considered herself his slave. And while she had deliberately made the decision to fuck him in order to lower his suspicions, until now she’d never imagined that might equate to whoredom.
The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance Page 70