The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance

by Christina Phillips

  With a smile, Nimue closed the tent flap, and the ravaging need to find the opium faded.

  Chapter 17

  The following afternoon, as they approached the settlement that had sprung up around the garrison, Tacitus still couldn’t comprehend how Nimue had so contemptuously dismissed his offer. It was unheard of. Foreign women simply didn’t refuse when a Roman patrician extended such privilege.

  How could she possibly imagine there was any similarity between slavery and concubinage? Every time he thought of it—and he thought of it more frequently than he cared to admit—her total disregard for the honor he’d intended caused fresh disbelief to pound through his head.

  He hadn’t expected her to fall at his feet with gratitude. But he hadn’t expected her to react as though he had deeply offended her, either.

  It didn’t help that she sat before him on the padded saddle, her back straight, as proud as a heathen queen, without the slightest regard for how she had insulted his honor. But where else could she be but here with him?

  She was his slave. His responsibility. And now he faced the stark truth that unless he could change her mind, Nimue would continue to remain his slave for as long as he remained in this primitive province.

  Thank the gods he hadn’t procured her manumission before extending his offer. In that case she would be free, no longer under his protection and therefore vulnerable to any of his compatriots who lusted for her.

  Did she have no idea of the danger she’d be in? Even if she left the Legion as soon as they reached the settlement, that was no guarantee of her safety. She would be an unprotected woman alone. Did she imagine she could stop a man from raping her if that was his intention? Could she really not understand that he had bought her because it was the only option open to him at the time?

  In the back of his mind, the recurring voice reminded him. Nimue would be alone once he left for Rome. Who would protect her then?

  But it was a faint voice of reason. Because his cursed pride could not get over the knowledge that Nimue, a native of a conquered land, had refused him.

  Tacitus led Nimue, still dressed in his tunic and wearing his soiled cloak, to his quarters in the garrison. As befit his status, his quarters comprised of several rooms for his own private use, as well as servants who tended to his everyday domestic needs. Had Nimue agreed to become his concubine her elevated status would ensure all treated her with due respect. As it was, she would be viewed as nothing more than a pleasure slave.

  The knowledge burned his gut. He’d never taken a pleasure slave. Had never even been tempted. But yesterday Nimue had acted the part to perfection. She had played it so well, he hadn’t the slightest idea of what she was doing until it was too late.

  She had serviced him. As any good sex slave should serve her master. And he had enjoyed every fucking moment. Even now, hours later, his cock jerked at the memory of her touch despite how his pride had been injured.

  Her lack of climax had been deliberate. A calculated move to show him that despite appearances she was not, and would never be, under his command.

  He opened the door and stood aside as Nimue entered. Despite how she’d sneered at his offer, she never behaved as a slave should. Smothering a grim smile, he followed her and watched her face as she glanced around the room that served as his office. She tried to hide her awe, but for one unguarded moment her eyes widened and a look of disbelief flickered over her face. He couldn’t help but wonder how much greater her awe would be if he showed her his villa in Rome.

  Perhaps when his term in Britannia ended, he would take her back to Rome with him. She was, after all, nothing but a slave and a slave was subject to her master’s whims. At least then he would know she was still safe from harm. The thought only served to blacken his mood further.

  He turned to his servants who were making a great effort not to stare at the exotic creature he’d brought with him. “Nimue will be staying here. She is to be accorded all due respect.” How far more powerful this introduction would be if he could have called her his concubine. Yet nothing on earth would induce him to call her his slave.

  With an imperial gesture, he indicated Nimue should follow him into his bedchamber. It was far smaller than his luxuriously appointed apartments in Rome but at least, thank the gods, it possessed a proper bed. He’d slept on the floor last night, leaving Nimue alone on the makeshift bed. His injured pride and bruised ego had been cold comfort. Every time she had turned over, every time she had sighed as if she was deliberately trying to keep him awake, his blood had burned with need.

  Tonight he had no intention of sleeping on the floor. And neither would Nimue. Tonight he would show her that he would not be manipulated when it came to sex. He would make her come and prove, without need for words, that she embraced his touch because she wanted him and not because it was her duty to.

  She turned and looked at him.

  “Am I to remain here?” She didn’t sound defensive. She sounded regal. Although he wasn’t sure what she meant by her question. Where else would she go?

  “You’re still recovering from your wound.” Not that she looked in need of convalescence. Her recovery was nothing short of astounding. “You’ll have ample opportunity to recuperate here.”

  An odd expression flickered over her face, as though she had all but forgotten about her injury. Then she swallowed, a strangely vulnerable gesture that inexplicably pierced his chest.

  “Yes. I do need to rest.” Then she pressed her lips together as if somehow the confession diminished her. Again he marveled at her fortitude. She insulted him with barely a blink yet she never complained of her physical discomforts. “But what of fresh air and exercise?”

  He saw her point but also knew that given half a chance she’d attempt to escape. And although she wouldn’t get far, the thought of her being dragged back to him like a common slave turned his stomach.

  “When I return later we’ll walk together.”

  Gods, he needed to arrange suitable clothing for her, otherwise she’d never be able to set foot outside his quarters. Even now, he could imagine the gossip his actions would cause. Who ever heard of a master walking with his slave for no other reason than she needed exercise? But scandal clouded his birth and gossip was something he’d got used to long ago.

  Let them talk. Just because he appeared enamored of a foreign woman, a slave no less, would not impact his career.

  Nimue pulled off his cloak and tossed it across the end of his bed. His tunic hung on her, too large and too long and yet somehow she managed to make the plain linen unbelievably sexy.

  “What shall I do in the meantime?” Her voice was perfectly reasonable and yet he received the distinct impression that it irked her greatly to ask. And as he stared at her, the full weight of her question sank into him.

  What in the gods’ names was she going to do all day? Such a mundane thought hadn’t crossed his mind. It appeared a great many things hadn’t occurred to him when he’d made the decision to rescue her from her fate.

  He didn’t have the first idea what to tell her. His servants ensured his quarters were clean, his clothes were laundered and his stomach satisfied. Blandus’ comment echoed in his mind. She can be as idle as she pleases during the day. She’ll certainly be kept busy enough at night.

  Tacitus resisted the urge to groan. Never before had he possessed servants—or slaves—surplus to requirements. He was certain that of his peers who had concubines not one of them had had to explain to the woman in question what her duties entailed. Nimue wasn’t a gently bred Roman woman who would be content to do whatever it was ladies did during the day. And the one time he’d broached the subject with her she’d looked at him as if he was mad to suggest she might be proficient with the loom.

  Still Nimue looked at him, waiting for his answer. He was supposed to be meeting with his commander. With an impatient gesture that he could only hope covered his mounting irritation, he swung away from her. “Do whatever you please.” Would he
come to regret these hasty words? Somehow he thought he would. “So long as you don’t leave my quarters.”

  After Tacitus left her, Nimue explored his quarters but finally returned to his bedchamber since that appeared to be the only room where none of his servants would follow her. Just before she closed the door, she was presented with a small pile of clean clothes. They were coarse, the type of garments a peasant would wear, and Nimue had bitten back her instinctive reaction when the woman had given them to her.

  She stood in the middle of the room and glowered down at herself. She would rather wear her torn and blood-stained gown than this…Roman sackcloth. But since she was trying her best not to annoy Tacitus she knew she’d simply have to bear it.

  As she fastened her belt around the rough material, she frowned. She couldn’t understand why her refusal to agree with his demand to become his concubine had so affected him. One would think he required her permission. But how could that be so when the status of a concubine was nothing more than that of a slave?

  She couldn’t fathom the difference, and yet Tacitus’ behavior suggested that, in his eyes, there was a whole Empire of difference.

  With a sigh, she forced the image of Tacitus from her mind. She wasn’t supposed to think of him when he wasn’t with her. Whether he wanted her to be his slave or his concubine was irrelevant, because she had no intention of remaining with him for any length of time.

  The journey from the battle site to this fortification had brought her a lot closer to the magical enclave where Caratacus had shielded his warriors and she knew it was a sign that she could no longer delay in her mission.

  She should pray for Arianrhod’s guidance, but even as the thought formed, unease fluttered through her breast. Her beloved Moon Goddess had been silent and remote since Nimue had been captured, no matter how desperately she’d tried to reach Arianrhod.

  Was her Goddess displeased that Nimue had been captured by the enemy? Or was it because she had not yet managed to secure the escape of the Briton queen?

  For a moment indecision warred through her heart. Since the night of her initiation, Arianrhod’s presence had never been far. Although the Goddess didn’t always answer Nimue’s prayers, never before had she felt so oddly bereft. It was almost as though Arianrhod had turned her back on her.

  No. That possibility was too terrible to even imagine.

  Nimue took a deep breath and tried to calm her racing heart. There had to be a way to show Arianrhod that she was committed to her task. That now they were in the fortification she would no longer delay in her mission.

  To save the queen and princess. And return the shard of bluestone.

  Heat washed through her. She’d almost forgotten about the bluestone. Hastily she searched for the pouch hanging on her belt. She would hold the bluestone and once again beg for Arianrhod’s advice. This time, surely, the Great Goddess would heed her call.

  Where is it? She couldn’t feel the shape of the bluestone through the leather pouches and disbelief punched through her. Frantically she pulled the belt from her waist and dropped it onto the bed. She knew, merely from looking at each pouch, what it contained. And the pouch she had put the bluestone in wasn’t there.

  But it had to be. How could it not? Ignoring the evidence of her eyes, she pulled desperately at the fastenings of the first pouch and tipped the contents onto the bed.

  Her comb, and lengths of colored leather to tie her hair. Just as she had expected.

  Her stomach churned as she tugged open each pouch. The bluestone wasn’t hiding in any of them. Of course it wasn’t. She knew she’d put it in its own pouch. She even knew the exact position on her belt where she had tied it.

  It didn’t matter how long she stared at her belt or her myriad possessions that were now scattered across the bed.

  She had lost the bluestone.

  Her legs gave way and she slumped onto the floor. How had she not known the bluestone was missing? Why hadn’t she checked before?

  Was this the reason Arianrhod refused to hear her pleas?

  Her chest constricted as panic clawed through her breast, causing her heart to hammer erratically against her ribs. When was the last time she’d seen the bluestone? Now she thought about it, she hadn’t touched it since before her capture. Did that mean she’d lost it before Tacitus had found her at the stream?

  Or had he taken it from her afterward when he had taken her dagger and bow?

  But that made no sense. The bluestone was no weapon. She gritted her teeth and pushed herself to her feet. Perhaps the leather ties had become worn and the pouch had dropped from her belt. Perhaps it had fallen onto the ground outside Tacitus’ quarters. Perhaps, after all, this was merely Arianrhod’s way of ensuring Nimue once more focused on her task.

  She clung onto that possibility with grim determination as she left the bedchamber and made her way toward the door. The bluestone would be outside. She knew it. And once it was again in her possession, the Moon Goddess would forgive her for temporarily losing it.

  As soon as she opened the door, the legionary on guard turned toward her. His face was a hard mask of enemy implacability. But she couldn’t let a little thing like that stop her.

  Dusk had fallen but the outside torches gave plenty of illumination. She stepped outside. He immediately blocked her way with one muscled arm.

  “I’m looking for something.” She offered him a guileless smile and hoped he fell for it and couldn’t see the fear beneath. “I think I dropped it out here.”

  His arm didn’t waver. Neither did his expression. “I have orders not to allow you to pass.”

  The fear inched higher in her breast and threatened to paralyze her throat. “I do not wish to pass.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the desperation in her voice. “I simply wish to look around.”

  He towered over her, a great hulk of a man and instinctively she took a step back.

  “I have no wish to force you back inside,” he said. “But I will if I have to.”

  She took another step back, her gaze scanning the ground. But no familiar leather pouch greeted her. Had she really believed it would be this easy? She gripped her unraveling courage together and tried once more. “I must—”

  He didn’t even wait to let her finish. He simply shut the door in her face.

  For a moment, she stared at the door until the reality of her situation slammed through her mind.

  She had lost the bluestone. And although she’d taken it without permission and had intended to use it for her own ends, an insidious sense of something far greater than her own plans hovered on the edge of her consciousness.

  Return what you have taken. The imperious command echoed through her mind, but why did it? And why did it sound so eerily familiar?

  Slowly she turned around, to see Tacitus’ servants staring at her as though she was something unspeakably foul. Her heart jerked in her chest as she remembered all her treasured possessions, scattered across Tacitus’ bed, and she hurried back to his room.

  Relief streaked through her. Nothing had been taken. She sat on the edge of the bed and with shaking fingers returned the contents to their respective pouches, until she came to her mother’s exquisitely engraved torque.

  A shaft of bittersweet pain engulfed her heart as she traced her finger over the gleaming silver. The torque had been passed from mother to eldest daughter for generations, and the bestowal had always been cause for great celebration.

  Except there had been no celebration when her mother had given her the priceless heirloom. Only terror, disbelief and the rank stench of betrayal.

  Her fingers tightened around the silver as she tried to push the memories to the back of her mind. It would do no good dwelling on them now. Not when she had to somehow find the bluestone. And work on gaining Tacitus’ trust—at least enough for him to allow her free access throughout this cursed Roman fortification. How could she discover the whereabouts of the queen if she was forbidden to leave Tacitus’ quarters?

&n
bsp; Voices in the adjoining room penetrated her thoughts. It was a deep, masculine voice but it wasn’t Tacitus and before she could investigate for herself what was happening the door flew open.

  A large Roman in flowing white robes with a purple stripe smiled at her from the doorway. He was the same Roman who had burst into Tacitus’ tent the other day. The one Tacitus had attempted to prevent from seeing her, as she had sat on his bed covered only by his cloak.

  She gave him her haughtiest look and rose to her feet, her heart thudding with trepidation against her ribs. There could be few reasons why this Roman was here, and she doubted any of them had to do with negotiating her freedom.

  The lust in his eyes was evident. And this time Tacitus was not here.

  Her fingers clenched around her torque, but as a weapon it was useless. If only she still had her dagger. To be so defenseless and vulnerable was intolerable. She had never been without a personal weapon at her hip since she had been a child and the extent of her vulnerability tasted foul on her tongue.

  She didn’t need to glance beyond the Roman to know that Tacitus’ servants stood, useless, in the next room. They wouldn’t come to her aid. All she could rely on was her wits and speed, and she was sorely compromised because of her injured shoulder.

  “Greetings,” the Roman said, stepping into the room. He continued to smile at her as if he imagined that might lower her guard. Did he think her a fool? And before the question had even finished forming, she acknowledged the truth.

  Yes, he did. He looked at her and didn’t see a captured enemy warrior. He saw a woman he wanted in his bed. The Gaul, curse him, had been right. It was not a dagger she needed in order to slay this Roman. It was his perception of her that would prove his downfall.

  When she didn’t respond he took another step toward her. “Don’t be afraid,” he said and it was only then she realized he was speaking her language, and not Latin. Did he think her ignorant of his barbaric tongue? The notion stung her pride but she kept silent. Let him think her an uneducated peasant. And on the heels of that thought came another.