If he thought her a peasant, he would never imagine for a moment what she truly was. Hadn’t she, back in the mountains when Tacitus had first come upon her, known that concealing her identity was her best hope for survival?
But then she had been dressed as a noble. Now she was dressed as a slave. For all this Roman knew, she might have stolen the bracelets from her dead countrywomen.
“What is your name?” He injected a false friendly note in his voice. Nimue imagined impaling an arrow through his lying mouth. “Come now, I won’t hurt you.”
Despite her precarious situation, his arrogant assumption that she was paralyzed with terror irked her. She tilted her jaw at him and only just remembered not to give him a withering glare for good measure. “My name is Nimue.”
His smile faltered and for a fleeting moment confusion wreathed his features. Belatedly Nimue understood why. Great Goddess, would she never learn to hold her tongue? She might look like a peasant but she certainly didn’t speak like one.
“Nimue.” She wasn’t sure whether he spoke to her, or himself. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
And now he attempted flattery? By calling her a girl?
He gave a low laugh and took yet another step into the room. But he didn’t close the door behind him. “There’s no need to look so apprehensive,” he said, and he was so close that if only she still possessed her dagger she could have plunged it through his corrupt heart before he drew another breath. “I mean only to make your acquaintance, nothing more.”
She flicked a scornful glance over him. His dark chestnut hair was short, as all Romans kept their hair, with only the faintest sprinkling of silver to belie his advancing years. His entire bearing exuded aristocratic authority and the assumption that his slightest command would be obeyed without question.
“Then there is nothing more to discuss.” He had her trapped between his body and the bed. Self-disgust flooded her veins. Why had she allowed herself to be maneuvered into such a vulnerable tactical position?
“I can see why the tribune likes you.” The Roman appeared to be amused by her response, which hadn’t been her intention at all. “Although by Jupiter I cannot fathom why he dresses you like the meanest creature of the gutters.”
The Roman’s criticism of Tacitus oddly annoyed her. She might be offended by the garments he’d left her, but that was between her and Tacitus. “My own gown was ruined.” She didn’t even try for humility anymore. It appeared such a feat was beyond her capabilities. “At least these are clean.” True enough. Even if the rough material did scratch her skin.
There was no mistaking the amusement that gleamed in his eyes this time. “You should be dressed in the finest of silks and softest of linen.” His lip quirked as if the image pleased him. “I see I shall have to instruct the tribune in such matters.”
“There’s no need.” She didn’t know why the Roman’s unsubtle censure of Tacitus bothered her so, but the thought of him lecturing Tacitus because of her plagued her senses. And because this Roman’s casual assumption that she couldn’t understand Latin scraped her nerves she decided to reply in his own cursed language. “I am, after all, merely a slave and dressed in garments fit only for a slave.” As she shot the words at him she fixed her torque around her throat. She didn’t know why he managed to so raise her ire, or why she told him she was nothing more than a slave while she flashed priceless jewelry in his face. She knew he was Tacitus’ superior. If he wished he could have her flogged or worse for her behavior. Yet somehow she knew he wouldn’t.
He didn’t want to disfigure her body. He wanted to possess it.
The silence after her last thrust stretched between them until finally Nimue risked a fleeting glance. He was staring at her, entranced. It was clear the fact she could not only speak his language but could speak it fluently staggered him.
A dozen barbed comments danced on the tip of Nimue’s tongue. Yet they remained locked within as her gaze meshed with the Roman’s. And a terrifying thought gripped her heart.
Had she gone too far? Had this powerful Roman guessed she was no ordinary Celt noblewoman? Does he know I’m a Druid?
Chapter 18
The moment Tacitus entered his quarters he knew Nimue was in danger. It wasn’t simply the way his servants, who should have been busy at their tasks, scattered at his arrival. It was a gut reaction that hit him with the force of a physical blow.
He marched through the room and then stopped dead at the sight of his commander, in his bedchamber, looming over Nimue.
White rage seared through him and without thinking of the consequences, he stamped into the room. His commander had trapped Nimue by the bed and it was obvious what would have happened if Tacitus hadn’t returned.
“Sir.” He ground out the word, clenching his fists. To lay hands on his commander could end his career, no matter how good friends he was with Tacitus’ father. But gods, if the bastard didn’t step back from Nimue instantly, Tacitus would bring down the full force of the law on his commander’s head.
Slowly his commander turned to him, and for a fleeting moment Tacitus could have sworn the older man threw him a look of fury. What the fuck did he have to be furious about? That Tacitus had interrupted his sport?
“Tribune.” Once again the commander’s face showed no trace of emotion. “Your latest acquisition is enchanting.” Without another glance at Nimue he turned and strode into the other room. Tacitus threw Nimue a black scowl but she didn’t look pleased with herself that she’d managed to snare the interest of his commanding officer. Instead she rubbed her fingers gingerly over her wounded shoulder and guilt flooded through him.
He’d been so consumed by her refusal to accept his offer and the knowledge she’d used sex to prove a point that he’d forgotten about her injury. He should have left the opium with one of his servants so Nimue had access to pain relief. And then something else punched into his brain.
What in Hades was she wearing? Did it give her perverse pleasure to disobey every word he uttered, even when he was attempting to ease her situation?
There wasn’t time to take issue with it now. His commander was in the other room and didn’t look happy at being kept waiting.
“Wait here.” His voice was gruff and she looked at him, but he couldn’t decipher the expression on her face. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want to. Because she looked at him as if everything about him sickened her.
Abruptly he turned and marched after his commander. It was obvious what the older man wanted. And Tacitus had no intention of agreeing.
Hands clasped behind his back, his commander turned to face him. “How much did you pay for her?”
That wasn’t the question Tacitus had expected. He considered refusing to answer but there was little point. His commander could discover the price easily enough if he so wished. And so he named the amount.
The commander didn’t move a muscle, even though the price was hefty for an injured captive. The silence became oppressive but still the other man didn’t speak or break eye contact. Was he waiting for Tacitus to extend hospitality in the form of using Nimue for the night?
Then his commander was in for a long wait. Tacitus was not his father, who saw nothing wrong in offering the sexual service of his slaves to favored friends.
“I’ll pay you double for her.”
Tacitus clenched his jaw, rage threatening to demolish his civilized veneer. “She’s not for sale.”
Something dark and dangerous flashed in his commander’s eyes. “Name your price, Tacitus.”
“There is no price. Sir.” The honorific sounded almost insulting, affixed to the end of his remark in such a manner but Tacitus didn’t care. It wasn’t him defying convention here. It was his commander. Tacitus decided to make the situation absolutely clear. “She belongs to me. I’ve pledged to keep her safe from harm.” Let the other man make what he liked of that. The intention was plain.
Tacitus would not stand by and allow Nimue—his property�
�to be used by any other.
His commander narrowed his eyes, his piercing gaze burning into Tacitus’ mind. “I have no intention of harming her, tribune. If you’re too enamored with her to part with her yet, then give me your word on this. When you tire of her, I claim first right of purchase. Do you agree?”
The image of his commander fucking Nimue turned his guts. He would never agree to such a thing. Because he had no intention of selling Nimue.
But what if, when the time came for him to return to Rome, his commander refused to grant Nimue manumission? If she was free she could return to her people, wherever they were. But if she remained a slave how could he continue to protect her unless he took her home—and acquired her freedom there from an unbiased magistrate?
Gods, how would Nimue survive as a freedwoman in Rome, unless she did agree to become his concubine?
“Should I decide to sell Nimue,” Tacitus said, and the words corroded his soul; as if he was speaking of a prize mare his commander had taken a fancy to, “I give you my word you will be the first I approach.”
His commander didn’t respond. After a fraught silence he finally jerked his head in acceptance and left. Tacitus expelled a frustrated breath, kicked the door shut and returned to his troublesome slave.
She hadn’t moved from where he’d left her, but she was no longer rubbing her wounded shoulder. The look she gave him, however, hadn’t altered in the slightest.
He resisted the urge to massage his pounding temples. Nothing had gone smoothly from the moment he’d found Nimue by the mountain stream. But at least this conversation with his commander, as much as it had irritated him, had clarified one thing. His commander now knew Tacitus would not stand by and allow any man to abuse Nimue, and he needed to make her understand.
“There’s no need to fear. You’ll never belong to the commander. And while you’re under my protection, his honor will never allow him to touch you.”
That should ease her mind. It had certainly eased his although nothing would induce him to admit such a thing aloud.
“I don’t fear him.” As always she spoke to him in Latin, but for the first time he acknowledged the quality of her Latin. Her accent would always mar her as a foreigner but her grasp of his language was akin to that of a patrician.
The haughty glance she gave him to accompany her words were at sharp odds with the garments she’d chosen to wear. He couldn’t fathom where she’d got them. Even his servants dressed better than this.
“Why aren’t you wearing the gown I arranged for you?” He knew she was proud but she didn’t have to look like a beggar to prove her objection to her situation. He was fully aware of how she felt.
So why in the name of all the gods had she refused his offer? If she hadn’t been so stubborn he could have acquired her manumission already, before his commander had taken it upon himself to meet with Nimue and decided he wanted her for himself.
“I am wearing the gown you arranged for me.”
Air hissed between his clenched teeth. Without another word he swung on his heel and marched from the room. His orders had been specific, but obviously not specific enough. It was clear that when it came to Nimue nothing was ever going to be straightforward.
And again the infuriated thought pounded through his head.
If Nimue was his official concubine, his servants would never have dared to offer her such coarse clothing.
Nimue followed Tacitus to the door and watched him storm toward the kitchen and servants’ area. That he was displeased with her gown was clear. Why that somehow eased her wounded soul she couldn’t imagine. Because it didn’t change her status.
Neither did the fact he had just assured her she was safe from his superior officer. Her pride demanded that Tacitus’ word meant nothing to her. In Rome’s eyes, she might be nothing but a slave but in her heart she was free. And no matter how brutally the enemy might use her she would survive and complete her mission.
But the truth was sorely different. Because in reality the thought of being used by countless barbarous Romans to satisfy their carnal lusts terrified her. And she despised her terror. Was she not a warrior? Had she not participated in many ambushes and skirmishes with the enemy since they’d invaded her beloved Cymru?
Yet it didn’t change the fundamental truth. Despite how she’d refused to be cowed by the older Roman, she had been very aware of the possibility that she could end up in his bed. Not because Tacitus would allow it. But because Tacitus could not prevent it.
The realization that Tacitus could, indeed, prevent such a fate shouldn’t be cause for such deep relief or—Goddess forgive her—gratitude.
What would she gain by continuing to delude herself? She had never given herself to Tacitus simply as a strategic measure. Could she have experienced such glorious orgasms with his superior officer? The image of attempting to seduce him made her feel ill.
The questions swirled through her mind, tangled and edged with unformed alarm. She desperately needed to commune with Arianrhod. Not to ask her about her mission, but because her wise Goddess would soothe her battered soul and calm her turbulent thoughts. Without considering the consequences, she went to the front door and pulled it open. This time the legionary didn’t attempt to prevent her escape. She looked up and a deep, thick darkness shrouded the skies.
Nimue frowned, but no glimmer of the silver moon could be seen. Of course it wasn’t unusual for clouds to obscure the Moon Goddess on her nighttime passage across the skies but still a shiver spidered along Nimue’s spine.
Something was wrong. She could feel it in the spiritual essence of her being; the special place where the Great Goddess had entered and filled her young acolyte with adoration on that long-ago night of initiation. She closed her eyes, willed her thoughts to still, and opened her heart to her Goddess. Please forgive me. Please return. She hadn’t meant to lose the bluestone.
“Nimue.” Tacitus voice punched through her senses and she swung around. He was glaring at her from the center of the room. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Would he understand if she told him the truth? He was only a heathen Roman, but even Romans acknowledged the power of foreign deities and Tacitus was not an ordinary Roman.
“I was attempting to commune with my Goddess,” she said with as much dignity as she could. “I feel barren without her love to comfort me.”
“Do you need to stand before an open door in order to do this?”
No, she didn’t. But neither did she generally call upon her Goddess while inside a dwelling. “I usually worship her at night.” Although she generally worshipped her Goddess whenever she had a quiet moment, she felt something more was needed so he appreciated just how important Arianrhod was to her. “In a sacred glade.” Because Tacitus had not told her to, she turned and closed the door, since that was clearly his intention despite how he didn’t move toward her.
“You’ll have to find alternative arrangements. There are no glades, sacred or otherwise, within the garrison.”
“I won’t use your heathen temple.”
He flashed a smile that appeared genuine, and she was once again enchanted. And a treacherous thought weaved through her mind.
Why couldn’t he be a brave Celt warrior that she could, at least, dream of having a future with?
“I’d never expect you to use our temple. I fear such sacrilege would bring plague and pestilence upon us all.”
Before she’d met Tacitus she had never imagined a Roman possessed a sense of humor. Certainly not when it came to his barbaric gods.
“You’re right to fear such retribution.” Although, in the back of her mind, the unnatural blackness of the night ate into her, she couldn’t help smiling back at him. “My gods can be mighty in their wrath.”
He came toward her and held out his hand. Without thinking she took it. His strong fingers folded around hers, and even that small touch caused delightful tremors to lick across her skin.
“Perhaps I should offer sacrif
ice to your gods in appeasement.” His smoky voice curled through her senses.
He wore the Roman tunic and cloak of her enemy, yet all she could see when she looked at him was the man who invaded her thoughts when he shouldn’t; the man whose touch she craved no matter how hard she tried to deny the truth.
“Surely your Roman gods would strike you down for honoring mine.”
“The gods of Rome are surprisingly tolerant of such indiscretions.”
She didn’t want to be intrigued, and yet she was. “My gods would never countenance such a thing.”
He tugged her forward and she went without resistance. Why pretend something they both knew to be false? Her refusal to climax the last time Tacitus had taken her had done nothing but cause her frustration. It hadn’t changed her status. Hadn’t changed the way she felt about him.
She might as well enjoy the time they had together because when she left with the queen and princess, they would never see each other again.
“Then whose gods are the more enlightened, Nimue?” He was laughing at her, mocking her beliefs, and yet fury didn’t rush through her veins or the desire to cut out his blasphemous tongue flood her senses.
Fascination weaved through her instead. “That’s easy to say, Tacitus.” They entered his bedchamber and he kicked the door shut behind them, and the lamps cast a mystical glow across the room. “But in reality your gods would strike you down if you worshipped another.”
He grasped her braid and then slowly slid his fist along the length of her hair, still damp from when she had washed it earlier. “Yet still I survive.”
They no longer held hands. Tacitus pulled her braid over her shoulder and began to leisurely loosen her hair. It shouldn’t feel so seductive or arousing, and yet she was both seduced and aroused by his gentle touch. She struggled to recall what they had been talking about. Because what he was suggesting was truly—outrageous.
The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance Page 74