“My lady. I hope you’re recovering well from your injury.”
Nimue swung round and stared at the Roman officer who had spoken her language and stood smiling down at her. Did she know him? Why did he address her as if they were acquainted? Or perhaps he was merely enquiring after her health because he was a friend of Tacitus.
She inclined her head in acknowledgment. And then, obscurely, the Gaul’s words came back to her. Her only weapon and means of defense was to use the Romans’ perception of her against them. She might be well on the way to full health but there was no need to let this Roman know.
“As well as can be expected.” It occurred to her she should wince in pain, or perhaps hold her injured arm. The image turned her stomach and besides she wasn’t sure she could carry off such a masquerade.
“Rest assured,” the Roman said, taking another step toward her, a look of concern on his face, “I personally ensured that the one responsible was duly punished for his crime.”
The auxiliary who had approached her as they’d set up camp. She hadn’t understood why he’d been punished for shooting her but it appeared this Roman was the one responsible.
And he expected her to be grateful for it.
“In a battle it’s expected that the enemy will shoot each other.” She tried to keep her voice even so this Roman wouldn’t guess how his remark had irritated her but by the way he raised his eyebrows she wasn’t sure she’d succeeded. Perhaps her best course of action was to keep her mouth shut altogether.
“The battle was over, my lady. And no warrior worthy of the name would shoot an innocent woman in cold blood.”
How blind these Romans were. She bit her tongue and embraced the sharp pain that cleared her mind. There was no point defending her position. It would achieve nothing but the possibility of angering this officer. Instead she should use her feminine wiles, the way the Gaul had indicated. The way she had failed to use them on Tacitus, because Tacitus, despite their short acquaintance, knew her too well to fall for them.
Besides, she didn’t wish to pretend to be someone she wasn’t with Tacitus. The one time she had tried, by refusing to embrace the orgasm that had threatened to consume her, what had she gained? Nothing but rabid frustration and an unpleasant coldness that had lingered between them until his commanding officer had shaken the shades from her eyes.
She affected a soft sigh, as if the memory of being shot was too traumatic to recall. “I’m eternally grateful that Tacitus didn’t leave me to be rounded up with the rest of the captives.”
The Roman’s eyes widened at her use of Tacitus’ name and again she stamped down the flare of anger. Why was it so odd that she used his name? First the healer, and now this officer reacted as if it was something extraordinary. Was she supposed to refer to him by his rank?
Another thought occurred to her. One that should have occurred to her immediately. It was more likely that, as his slave, she should call him her master. It was how slaves referred to their owners in her society so why would it be different for Romans?
The difference was that this time she was the slave. And even to keep up this flimsy masquerade she wasn’t certain she could force that word between her lips.
“My lady,” the Roman said, and in her peripheral vision she saw the seamstress edge closer, clearly unsure whether to intercede or not, “such a fate for you never crossed my mind. My first imperative was to ensure your wellbeing.”
She trawled through her memories, but after the arrow had struck she could recall nothing clearly until waking in Tacitus’ tent. Had this officer seen her unconscious by the mountain stream? The knowledge that she’d been so vulnerable and unaware sent a trickle of unease along her spine. “You were there?”
He smiled, and a detached section of her mind acknowledged that he possessed an autocratic beauty of his own. But almost instantly, the impact of his words wiped out any other consideration.
He had been there when Tacitus had claimed her freedom. Did he know anything about the queen and princess?
“I persuaded my esteemed cousin to save you from the indignity of being herded with the others. You are clearly no peasant, my lady, and deserve a better fate than that.”
None of her people deserved such a fate at the hands of the Romans, but it was equally clear this Roman had no idea he’d just insulted her by his words. And then his other comment fell into place in her mind.
He and Tacitus were cousins? And he had persuaded Tacitus to save her?
Somehow that didn’t feel right. Did this barbarian think to flatter her with such talk?
She was just about to take issue with his comment when something made her glance at the stall to her left that sold small carved timber goods. At eye level, fixed to the wooden pole that supported the awning above the table, an exquisite rendition of an owl observed her with unblinking intensity.
Nimue only just stopped herself from sinking to her knees before the image of her beloved Goddess. The owl was a reminder that she was in the heart of the enemy’s camp, that she had to watch her tongue. With this Roman at least, she should play the weak female he clearly imagined she was.
With reluctance, she dragged her gaze from the owl and mentally stiffened her spine. Her pride might weep at what she was about to do, but she would recover. She needed vital information.
“Thank you. I’m most grateful for your benevolence.” How the words burned her throat. But the self-satisfied smirk on the Roman’s face was more than enough to convince her that she’d sounded genuine. “I don’t think I could survive in the pit with the other captives.”
Goddess forgive her. Nimue felt her face glow with shame at her words, but she was following Arianrhod’s instructions. Yet even knowing that didn’t help to ease the acidic scorch of betrayal that seared her. She sounded as though she didn’t care about the suffering of her people, as long as she remained free and unchained.
“Do not distress yourself.” The Roman’s smirk faded as though he imagined she might dissolve into hysterics. “You’ll never be put with the other slaves, as long as there’s breath left in my body.”
Had she a dagger to hand, the breath would leave his body a lot sooner than he imagined. She fought to subdue the enticing thought, in case it showed on her face. “You’re very kind.” She widened her eyes in the hope it would stop her from baring her teeth in frustration. The Roman stared at her, seemingly entranced, and she forcibly reminded herself of the reason for this deception. “I cannot sleep at night for fear of being thrown into the pit, chained like a wild beast.”
“No man would dare chain you.” He sounded shocked by the notion, as if the chaining of slaves was unheard of. “And there’s no pit, my lady. We’re not savages.”
She might have been playing to this Roman’s prejudices against her sex, but she was sure they kept their prisoners in a primitive pit, without protection against the elements. Perhaps her people had got that wrong.
“You keep the slaves inside?” She injected a note of awe into her voice. Surely he would strike her for her mockery but the Roman appeared completely oblivious to where she was heading. From the corner of her eye she saw the seamstress, a look of agitation on her face, clearly debating the wisdom of approaching while her charge conversed with another officer. It would seem Tacitus hadn’t specifically given instructions that she wasn’t to speak to another Roman, but that was likely because he never imagined she would.
And she wouldn’t have. But this Roman had approached her.
“Of course,” the Roman said, as though it was imperative she believe him. “We would never subject women and children to unnecessary hardship. They are housed beyond the Veterinarium.” He indicated with a jerk of his head the direction that he meant. Nimue stared at him in disbelief at how easily he’d given her the information she sought. Did he even realize the importance of what he’d told her?
“The Veterinarium?” She sounded out the Latin word, although she knew full well what it meant and how to p
ronounce it.
“For the horses,” he said, as if explaining to a small child. “It’s next to the Valetudinarium where our physician attends to the sick and injured.”
“You have greatly eased my mind.” She lowered her gaze to his chest so he wouldn’t see that she was anything but subservient or grateful in reality. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return to Tacitus’ quarters.”
“It’s been a pleasure, my lady. I’m sure we’ll meet again very soon.”
She offered him a perfunctory smile and watched him stride away. Then she looked in the direction the Roman had pointed out to her.
Seeing the owl just now had been more than a reminder to curb her words. It had been Arianrhod’s way of telling Nimue that the Roman could help her. And he had. Surreptitiously she glanced around, but apart from the seamstress, no one took any notice of her.
She could discover where the queen was being held and let her know that Nimue was working on an escape plan. Heart thudding against her ribs she walked purposefully toward the Veterinarium. If she looked as though she had every right to be in this part of the fortification then she was less likely to be stopped. At least, she hoped.
She saw the building she was looking for by the legionary standing guard outside. She took a deep breath, tilted her head in a regal manner and strolled toward the door. The legionary looked her up and down, and clearly liked what he saw if the appreciative grin on his face was anything to go by. Would he be so lax if she had her bow and dagger?
“I am under the tribune’s protection.” She spoke in Latin and while the words made her feel more like a slave than ever, the effect on the legionary was dramatic. He straightened and took a step back from her, as though to get too close would condemn him to punishment.
Perhaps it would.
“I wish to speak to the prisoners.” Nothing would induce her to call them slaves.
The legionary frowned. “Why?”
Why did he think? She forced a smile to her lips and hoped he didn’t come from Gaul. Otherwise he’d never fall for her deception. “Because they are my friends.”
He glanced around, then clearly came to the decision that she couldn’t possibly pose a threat. “Very well.” He turned and unlocked the door. “But only for a few moments.”
Nimue took a deep breath and stepped inside. She was taking a risk but there was little else she could do. If one of the women or children recognized her and decided to betray her, all would be lost. But she trusted her Goddess and if the reaction of the legionary was anything to go by, then Arianrhod was by her side.
The conditions were not nearly as bad as she’d feared. They were clean, if sparse, and from a cursory glance it didn’t look as if her people had been brutally whipped or been left in chains.
As a couple of the women approached her, she realized something else. The Briton queen and princess weren’t there and panic shot through her. It hadn’t occurred to her that they wouldn’t be here and yet it should have. After all, they hadn’t traveled here on foot with the rest of the captives, had they?
“My name is Nimue.” She spoke softly, in the language of Cymru, certain that the legionary was trying to eavesdrop. “Where is the Briton queen?”
The women eyed her with suspicion and one of them curled her lip. “How did you escape our fate?” Her words implied that she had a very good idea how Nimue had escaped, and despised her for it.
Her stomach knotted in distress to know that, in truth, the woman was right. Nimue was nothing but a Roman tribune’s whore.
But she didn’t feel like one. She would never feel like one, not when it came to Tacitus.
There was no time to mourn what could never be. She ignored the woman’s hostile glare and pulled the gown over her shoulder so her wound was visible. “I was shot and captured.”
The women stared at her injury and their hostility faded a little. The one who had spoken before finally met her gaze again. “The Briton queen has never been with us. She and her daughter are in the building next to this one.”
Relief surged through her. She’d feared the Romans had taken the queen somewhere else. She thanked the women and just as she was about to leave, a small child caught her attention. She was clinging to one of the women’s legs, and her huge eyes stared up at Nimue in silent entreaty.
Guilt speared through Nimue’s breast. How could she leave this child—all the children—the Romans had captured? How could she leave behind the women? But how could she hope to save so many? They were bedraggled and would be caught the moment they set foot outside their prison.
But there had to be something she could do. Her first priority was to the Briton queen but she would not—could not—forsake her countrywomen. She would ask for Arianrhod’s guidance. Surely—
Her thoughts were severed by the sound of the legionary’s voice addressing a superior officer. Please don’t let it be the commander. Trepidation licked through her and with a feeling of dread she glanced over her shoulder.
And saw Tacitus glaring at her.
Chapter 22
Tacitus stared at Nimue as disbelief thudded in his chest. It had never occurred to him that she would seek out the other slaves.
But he should have. Nimue had made it plain that she resented her enslaved status. He reeled in his sense of betrayal, because logically he knew she hadn’t betrayed him. After all, he hadn’t specifically ordered her not to visit the slaves.
No. And the reason he hadn’t was because he hadn’t believed such an order necessary.
She looked at him and the fact she appeared as if she had every right to be there stoked his ire. “Come here.” His voice was low, even, and although Nimue did not bat an eyelash, the legionary by his side suppressed a shudder.
Let him shudder. Let him imagine Tacitus was about to unleash fearful punishment upon his errant slave. The notion turned his guts and he spared the other man a lethal glare before once again focusing on Nimue.
She came toward him and once she stood before him, the legionary hastily locked the door.
Tacitus had the mad urge to grip her arm and drag her back to his quarters, as though he was an ignorant slave master who had no control over his property. Instead he marched several paces then stopped, waiting for Nimue to catch up with him.
She stood by his side, as silent as a good slave should be. The thought of Nimue doing anything that a good slave should was laughable.
Except laughing was the last thing he felt like doing.
“What do you think you were doing?” He glared down at her but she refused to cower. Did he really want her to?
“You didn’t say I couldn’t visit my countrywomen.” Pride infused every word and he battled the urge to shake her. Didn’t she understand that by going behind his back she eroded his authority? Didn’t she realize that it was only his authority—his heritage, rank and honor—that protected her from the fate that awaited her countrywomen?
“How many times have you visited them?” Every day he’d imagined she went to the market, taking the air and exercise she so desperately craved. But had she, instead, spent that time with the other slaves? And why the fuck hadn’t his seamstress told him?
“Today was the first time.”
The anger simmering beneath the surface of his patrician façade cooled a little at her response. He knew he should doubt her word. Knew she could say anything, do anything, to alleviate his concerns but somehow he knew she spoke the truth.
He knew it, because Nimue wouldn’t bother to lie to him in such a matter. She clearly found nothing wrong in what she’d done. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly.
All she had done was visit the other slaves. If she’d asked him, would he have allowed her to? Why was he so irate by her actions?
But he knew why. It was because he’d imagined her doing one thing during the time he wasn’t with her, and she had been doing something quite different. Something no other woman he had met would dream of doing without first asking his permission
.
Yet again he faced the fact that Nimue was nothing like any other woman he had met. And as much as he’d managed to delude himself as to how she might behave in his absence, the proof of his misplaced trust had just played out before his eyes.
He didn’t have time to take her back to his quarters. Didn’t have time to try to analyze what it was about Nimue that so corroded his reason. She was only a woman and her actions shouldn’t plague his mind the way they did.
It was good advice. He knew he’d be unable to follow it. “Return to my quarters immediately. We’ll discuss this matter when I return this evening.” His voice was harsh but he experienced no sense of satisfaction when she stiffened at his tone. She made no response but merely turned and walked to where his seamstress waited. Unease shifted through him. He had the feeling he should’ve been more specific in his order but what could she do once she was confined in his quarters?
The thought should have reassured him. Instead, inexplicably, it only increased his sense of unformed dread.
Nimue returned to Tacitus’ quarters in silence. The seamstress’s frosty attitude confirmed that any small advance she had made in gaining the woman’s trust over the last few days had irrevocably shattered.
Not that she cared about the seamstress’s trust. It was the look on Tacitus’ face as he’d ordered her back to his quarters that haunted her mind. Why had he chosen that very moment to pass the prisoners’ building? Why hadn’t Arianrhod distracted his attention?
She didn’t want Tacitus to distrust her. It was a foolish thought because no matter how much they enjoyed each other’s company they were enemies. They would always be enemies. But she craved his admiration in the short time they had left together.
Once she escaped the fortification, Tacitus would despise her. But at least she wouldn’t be here to witness it.
The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance Page 77