Her fingers clenched around his cloak and as if an invisible thread guided her, her gaze shifted and caught on the figure of Tacitus as he marched through the camp toward her.
She despised the tremor of lust that caused her pussy to quiver and nipples to harden. No matter how she tried to convince herself she had taken him purely for strategic gain, her body disdained the lie.
She’d taken him because she’d wanted to. Desire had fogged her brain. Would he have trusted her enough to leave her alone just now, if they had not rutted like wild creatures?
As he approached, her heart hammered against her ribs in a tangled wave of fury and despair. Her strategy was working. It should make no difference to her feelings whether Tacitus considered her a free woman or his slave. Except now that she knew the truth, her plans of seduction no longer held any appeal. As a free woman, she had the choice. As a slave, she had none. Yet this should make no difference to how she felt because she had been a slave from the moment she had woken in the Roman camp.
But I didn’t know then. And now that she did, the knowledge that she had willingly had sex in the hope it would help Tacitus trust her brought her no pleasure, only an aching sense of disgust.
“Come.” He held out his arm, a silent command to follow him, but ruined the effect with a warm smile that twisted her rage and fed her self-revulsion. He showed no surprise that she was standing exactly where he had left her. Why should he? She was his slave. It was her duty to obey without question or demur.
Without a word, she stepped toward him. She would play her part. She would play it so perfectly that when she finally left him, he would be staggered by her duplicity, horrified by his own gullibility.
“I’ve arranged for a bath for you in my quarters. You’ll have as much time as you need to dress your hair.” He shot her a sideways glance, his eyes glinting with apparent mirth at how she’d been unable to tame her hair to her satisfaction earlier that day.
She didn’t respond; merely ground her teeth so she wouldn’t be tempted to tell him what she thought of him. She’d never respond to his taunts again. She would be the perfect, silent slave, obedient to his every wish. And his guard would tumble and she would take her revenge.
For a moment, he continued to look at her and she continued to stare doggedly ahead, refusing to succumb to the insistent voice in her head that urged her to turn. I won’t look at him. She would give him no reason to doubt her.
Her fingers ached, they gripped his cloak so tightly. Better to focus on that, than the scorching words that incinerated her brain.
“Are you unwell, Nimue?” His voice was low and a thread of false concern weaved through his words. “Did the journey tire you overmuch?”
Did he think her incapable of enduring a half-day’s march? When she had been on horseback? A scathing retort scorched her tongue, and then she recalled Gervas’ words.
When Tacitus looked at her, he didn’t see a woman who was trained as a warrior. He saw a woman of noble birth. A woman he believed more familiar with a loom than a bow.
“No.” She forced the word between her teeth, and couldn’t bring herself to call him master. She would likely choke on her own vomit if she attempted such base humility.
“Does your shoulder pain you?” He sounded so genuinely concerned it was hard to remember he had enslaved her without her knowledge. Without even having the decency to inform her of her status afterward, before he’d taken her with such forceful disregard.
She pried open her lips to respond with another surly no when once again Gervas’ words echoed in her brain.
Romans believed women were weak, not only in body but also in spirit and mind. She’d heard rumors in the past, and hadn’t always believed them. But now she knew for certain.
It went against everything she believed in, but if it helped weave a web of complacency around Tacitus then she would bury her pride a little more.
“Yes.” It wasn’t a lie. Her shoulder did pain her. But not enough to comment upon. Not enough to expect sympathy or special treatment. But she was no longer in her clan. She was fighting for survival in the enemy camp, and she had to use tactics she had never before in her life contemplated.
He cursed under his breath and for a moment she thought he was about to wind his arm around her. But then he pulled back, as if recalling the lowly status he had thrust upon her. It was unheard of for a master of any race to embrace his slave in public.
No matter what they might do in private.
She entered his tent. Lamps illuminated the interior, casting a magical golden glow but it did nothing to ease the injustice curdling her stomach. When he approached her she forced herself to remain absolutely still, instead of lashing out and gouging the flesh from his arrogant, aristocratic face.
“Let me see.” Without waiting for her response—as if her response would make any difference—he gently eased his cloak back from her shoulders. She smothered the urge to cling onto the cloak and instead allowed him to drop the offending article to the ground.
Of course he wanted to examine her wound. He wanted to ensure his investment wasn’t putrefying.
How much had he paid for her? How much pleasure would she take in forcing those cursed coins down his throat, until he choked on them?
Tacitus eyed the thunderous glare on Nimue’s face and waited for her outburst. It was sure to erupt. She’d been almost incandescent with stifled fury from the moment he’d returned to her.
But she didn’t say a word. Had he read her mood wrong? Was she so silent only because her wound gave her so much pain?
Since it was unlikely she would hold her tongue if something had annoyed her, he could only assume the ride had exhausted her more than she was admitting. Not that he was surprised by her fortitude. Nimue had scarcely complained about her injury at all.
His tunic was far too big for her. The material had slipped over her right shoulder, exposing her creamy skin and tempting swell of her breast. Through the linen, her nipples were clearly defined, erect and proud and the lust that had thudded between his thighs all day broke through his rigid control.
For a moment he was tempted to cup her breasts and drag his thumbs over those luscious nipples. But if he started he wouldn’t be able to stop. And he had no intention of repeating the hasty coupling they’d enjoyed earlier that day. He battened down his smoldering desire before untying her leather belt. It was her own and several leather pouches hung from it. He’d examined their contents the previous day for possible weapons, but they had mostly contained personal items.
He dropped her belt on top of his cloak and still she didn’t say a word. But the look on her face said volumes.
For a moment he hesitated. He hadn’t known her long but he knew her well enough. And when Nimue looked at him with such venom she never remained silent.
The bandage was clean. Relief surged through him. At least the wound was not weeping poison. She stood absolutely still and if he was inadvertently hurting her, she didn’t let it show.
With infinite care, he began to unbind her dressing. It would be easier if the tunic wasn’t in the way, but if she was naked he’d be tempted to admire her body. He didn’t want her to think all he was interested in was fucking her. No matter how much he desired her, he also wanted her to know of his concern for her physical well-being. He might not have shot the arrow that had injured her but he was responsible. He should have been able to protect her, and he had failed.
He frowned at the wound that marred her perfect skin. Marcellus’ stitches were neat, but Nimue would still be scarred for life. But at least she would still have her life.
“It looks to be healing well.” He scrutinized her face, as she peered at her shoulder, and wondered if her unnatural silence was because she’d been afraid of what she might see beneath the dressing.
Yet it didn’t make sense. She’d shown no feminine fear earlier that day when Marcellus had examined her. Perhaps, with her knowledge of healing, she was used to seeing s
uch battle wounds? But even so, it was different when the wound was inflicted on herself.
“Yes. It appears Roman knowledge of such matters is impressive.”
He waited for the barbed comment that was sure to follow her remark, but it didn’t arrive. Nimue merely pressed her lips together as if complimenting Roman medicine pained her more than any arrow.
Why then had she deigned to say it in the first place? He certainly didn’t expect any gratitude from her on that matter.
Unwelcome suspicion ate through his brain. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
She gave him a look designed to paralyze. “Like what?”
The suspicion solidified but he fought against it. If Nimue had discovered she was a slave she wouldn’t be giving him the silent treatment. She would be clawing out his eyes.
There had to be another reason why her mood had degenerated so swiftly. “Did anyone speak to you? Insult you?” No one insulted his woman. But if anyone had, they would soon learn the error of their presumption.
“No one insulted me while you were gone.” She flicked her gaze over him, from his head to his boots and then up again. Her beautiful green eyes darkened, and an answering tug of need gripped low in his gut. “Most of your legionaries look through me, as if I don’t even exist.”
The tightness in his chest relaxed. Was that all? She was only irked at being ignored by his men. She was undoubtedly used to being constantly admired.
He had no problem with other men admiring her. Once they returned to the garrison and Nimue became his concubine he would ensure she wanted for nothing. Gowns, jewels—anything she desired. Men would lust after her, but they would keep their hands and thoughts to themselves if they valued their lives.
Even his commander hadn’t commented on Nimue when they’d spoken a few moments ago. It was as if the blatant desire Tacitus had witnessed on the older man’s face when he’d seen Nimue in bed had never occurred.
Surprising, but a relief. It would not have been pleasant to outright deny the commander’s request, had he wanted a night with his Celt.
“I assure you, they know you exist.” His fingers trailed over her left shoulder, along her biceps and gently clasped her hand. She didn’t wince from the pain she must be experiencing from her wound, although she dropped her gaze to focus on his jaw. She was in optimum health to recover so swiftly from her injury. He knew she was of noble birth and the strong, supple condition of her body suggested she had never faced the rigors of debilitating disease or starvation. And again, he wondered what she had been doing wandering alone in the aftermath of battle.
Faint unease echoed in his mind but he instantly banished the thought. Nimue had not been the healer traveling with Caratacus’ queen. Because if she had…
No. He refused to consider it. Her proximity to where the barbarian queen and her daughter had been discovered was pure coincidence. Another healer had been accompanying them, and had escaped capture.
“But they would not attack me?”
All thoughts of Nimue’s possible connection to the queen vanished. Gods, it had never occurred to him that she’d been afraid of attack from his own men. Hadn’t he told her she was safe so long as she remained within the camp?
Obviously, his words hadn’t been sufficiently clear.
“No. None of them would dare to approach you, let alone touch you.” Gently he raised her arm and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “They all know you’re mine. To dishonor you would be a direct attack on my name.”
He could give her no higher assurance of her safety. His name, his lineage, ensured her protection was absolute. Yet the swift look she stabbed him with, before once again focusing on his jaw, suggested she imagined he had just leveled a coarse insult her way.
“You don’t intend to pass me around your compatriots for sport?” The question, loaded with vulnerability, punched through him, and yet she didn’t cast him an anxious glance and neither did her voice tremble.
She sounded haughty, proud—as if she had issued a demand instead of displaying the depth of her deeply buried fear.
It didn’t matter how she denied it. Someone had frightened her. He intended to discover who that someone was.
“I don’t intend that any other man will have you, Nimue.” Fleetingly he recalled that within three months he was due to return to Rome. But he wasn’t looking that far ahead. For now, Nimue was his and no other man had rights over her. “Do you understand? No matter his rank or heritage. The only bed you will share is mine.”
Chapter 15
Nimue withdrew her hand and flexed her fingers, as if they ached. Once again she was looking at him, and he couldn’t decipher the expression on her face.
He recognized the lust in her eyes, though, and his cock thickened with anticipation.
Not yet. He had no intention of taking her when she needed to eat, to rest—to bathe. No intention of losing control the way he had earlier. No matter how she tempted him otherwise. He was, after all, a Roman. And a Roman should never be at the mercy of his lust.
Without breaking eye contact, she began to tug his tunic from her body. It was an inelegant process with her damaged shoulder but he couldn’t tear his fascinated gaze away.
He knew he should stop her. This wasn’t what he’d intended. But the words lodged in his throat as she finally managed to pull the linen over her head and toss it onto the ground.
The lamplight bathed her body in a golden glow; her tangled, windswept hair framed her face and gave her a strangely ethereal appearance. She stood before him, proud and uninhibited, her breasts full and ripe and ready for his touch.
“Is that a promise, Roman?” Her gaze never left his. He could scarcely fathom what she was asking him, but right now he would promise her anything.
“Yes.”
She trailed her finger over her lips in a deliberately slow, sensuous manner designed to inflame. His glance dropped to focus on her pouting lips, even as her finger drifted over the proud angle of her chin and along the column of her throat.
“Can I trust the word of a Roman tribune?” Her voice was low, smoky. Bewitched, his gaze followed the languid progress of her finger.
“You can.” If any other man touched her, Tacitus would castrate him. If any man insulted her, Tacitus would rip his tongue from his filthy mouth. “I give you my word as a patrician and on the names of my forefathers, Lucius Marius.”
Her left hand splayed across her belly while her right continued its provocative exploration over the pale globe of her breasts. She circled her erect nipple and then clasped the rosy bud between her finger and thumb.
His breath rasped between clenched teeth. He’d watched women strip and pleasure themselves before, but only in company when they were the evening’s entertainment. Never had any of his lovers stood before him in such a manner. Never had any of them taken the initiative to put on such an erotic, personal show.
Never before had the desire to simply stand and watch or take control of the situation warred so violently between every frenzied thud of his heart.
She held her breast, her nipple peeking provocatively between her thumb and finger. He battled the overwhelming urge to grasp his cock and gain temporary relief. He’d never been tempted to do such a thing in company before. He had no intention of starting now.
But gods, he was so hard. Every particle of his being was focused on his groin, pounding through his erection, making it all but impossible to concentrate on anything else.
On anything but Nimue. But Nimue was intertwined with the lust thundering along his veins, fogging his senses. Nimue was the reason he was struggling for control, a control that was sliding from his grasp with every erratic thud of his heart.
She abandoned her breast and her hand molded the curve of her waist and flare of her hips. Her body was not that of a wild barbarian. It was slender, supple, delicate and enchanting and despite his best intentions an agonized groan escaped his throat.
Fuck his good int
entions. He would claim her first, and then see to her other needs.
“Wait.” Her breathy command halted him, before he even realized he’d moved toward her. “Watch.”
He was beyond watching. If he didn’t have her soon he would disgrace himself for all time. And then his jagged thought processes stalled, nailed him to the spot, and he was unable to move a muscle as his gaze riveted on her.
Nimue parted her thighs and two fingers delved into the pale golden curls that cradled her sex. She caressed her swollen pussy lips, back and forth, and he glimpsed the hood of her clitoris, ripe with seductive promise.
“Nimue.” It was a command to stop, yet sounded like an entreaty to continue. He couldn’t drag his fascinated gaze from her fingers.
“Yes.” There was a wisp of triumph in her whisper, but he scarcely heard above the pounding in his temples, the throbbing need in his groin. With agonizing disregard for his sanity, she slowly slid one finger inside her pussy, and his cock jerked with tortured frustration.
“I need to have you. Now.” His words were jagged, rasped against his raw throat. The head of his cock was wet, his balls were tight and hard and he was so close to coming lightning streaked through his groin, an excruciating ecstasy.
“Will you fuck me hard and fast?” Her breathless whisper inflamed his mind, and before his hypnotized gaze she slid a second finger into her lush body. “Will you fuck me until I scream your name out loud, Roman?”
“Yes.” It was a primal growl. “I’ll fuck you until you can’t think straight, until you beg for mercy.”
She dragged her fingers from her glistering sheath and flattened her hand against his chest. Instantly he gripped her wrist and pulled her toward him. Their gazes meshed, her eyes so dark they appeared black, and with the last remnants of his tattered control he slowly sucked her finger deep into his mouth.
The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance Page 71