This was what he had saved her from. With a flash of insight she knew that, if it was within his power, he would have done the same for all the captives. Given them the freedom she now enjoyed, even if that freedom came at the price of being called…his slave.
She bit her lip and frowned back at the legionaries. While she had willingly shared Tacitus’ bed, her people had been subject to unrelenting rape and abuse. And while she would have been a liability with an injured shoulder, her wound was sufficiently healed for her to now take up the mantle of responsibility.
A hollow sensation filled her chest at the knowledge that she didn’t have the luxury of even another day with Tacitus. Was that why Arianrhod had called her into the higher realms? To remind Nimue of her responsibilities? Tacitus had served his purpose. It was time to serve hers. She needed to strategize and execute her plans, and quickly, before further harm befell the captives.
“I must help them, Tacitus.” The words fell from her lips before she could prevent them, but as horror at her unguarded tongue flooded through her, it was instantly calmed by the strange certainty that she had done the right thing.
Tacitus wouldn’t condemn her for speaking from her heart.
His heavy sigh weaved through her blood and sank into the hidden depths of her soul. Instinctively she clasped his hand, as though on some level it was him who needed comfort. “There’s nothing you can do. This is an inevitable repercussion of war.”
She pressed closer and fought against the absurd sting of tears that prickled the back of her eyes. There was something she could do to save her people but she couldn’t tell Tacitus of the plan beginning to form in her mind.
She could only share with him her half-formed preparations. “I could give them clean clothes. Blankets. It’s not much but it might help ease conditions.”
As Tacitus turned to give her a brooding look, something cracked deep inside her breast. She wanted to give the prisoners the clothes she and the seamstress had made during the last few days. Yes, it would ease conditions—and when they escaped they wouldn’t look as if they’d been held captive.
Yet lying to Tacitus, even though she had no choice if she wanted to help her people survive, hurt more than she had ever imagined possible.
“Is that why you went there today? To see what conditions they were living in?” There was a guarded note in his voice as though that possibility had only just occurred to him.
“Yes.” She wondered that he could hear her response, her voice was so choked with tears she could never allow to fall.
“That could be arranged.” There was the slightest hint of suspicion in his voice as if he doubted her true motives, but at least he’d agreed. She should be elated at this added concession but all she felt was the acrid scorch of betrayal. “I’ll inform the legionary on guard duty tomorrow to expect you.” His grip around her hand tightened. “Don’t try anything dangerous, Nimue.”
Chapter 25
In the back of her mind, Nimue knew this night was the last night they would have together. She couldn’t allow her people to continue in their captivity, and she could no longer delay in fulfilling her pledge to Caratacus to safely deliver his queen and daughter to the land of the Brigantes.
When they finished their meal, Tacitus dismissed his servants and showed her the kitchen, where she would prepare her herbal teas in the morn. But she didn’t want to think of the following day. Because that was the day she would say goodbye to Tacitus forever.
He avoided all mention of her unauthorized visit to the prisoners or the way she had taken the opium. Instead, he appeared fascinated by the magic of her herbs. And, against the unwritten laws of her people, she found herself telling him of the ways a woman could assist or prevent conception. She trailed the tip of her finger along the table in the center of the room. “Is such knowledge denied to the women of Rome?”
“It’s not something I’ve ever considered.” He sounded as though he confessed to a great sin. “If such knowledge was freely available, perhaps it would have saved my adoptive mother great heartache.”
His adoptive mother? She trawled frantically through the conversations they had shared. He’d mentioned his mother several times. It had never occurred to her that she had traveled onto the next stage of her journey.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” How long ago had it occurred? No wonder he sounded so tortured when he spoke of his mother’s wish for his future career. And yet…her thoughts tumbled, uncertain. He had always spoken of her as if she was still in the mortal realm.
Tacitus frowned, seemingly baffled. “My loss?”
Nimue fought the urge to squirm. She had the feeling she completely misunderstood his words but had no idea in what way. “Of your birth mother,” she clarified, as heat washed through her. “It’s—hard to accept.” Such an understatement. Even with the passage of fourteen full moons since her own mother’s murder, the wound remained raw in her heart.
Tacitus’ frown faded, but his intense gaze didn’t waver. “My birth mother still lives, Nimue.” His voice was gentle, as if he realized her confusion but his words merely confused her further. How could he possess an adoptive mother if his blood mother still survived?
“I don’t understand.” The admission hurt, but not as much as it would have a quarter moon ago. “When you spoke to me before of your mother, of whom were you referring?”
He smiled, but it was a pensive smile and she couldn’t help but cradle his jaw in her hand, or caress the corner of his lips with her thumb. She didn’t like to see her Roman sad.
How far she had fallen in so short a time.
“I spoke to you of them both.” He took her braid and allowed the heavy rope to slide along his fingers. “My birth mother, whose gods I worship in her name and my noble Roman mother, whose forbearance often shames me.” He heaved a sigh and wound her braid around his fist. “Their ambitions for me are identical. A mirror image of my esteemed father’s.”
Mesmerized both by his entrancing violet eyes and the insight to his life, Nimue swayed closer until their bodies all but touched. A possible answer to his domestic arrangements fluttered through her mind.
Sometimes, despite every endeavor, a woman failed to conceive a dearly wished for babe. In those cases, her sister or close relation might offer the sanctuary of her own womb. It was a precious gift and not lightly given and in such cases the babe did, most assuredly, possess the love of two mothers at the same time.
“Your adoptive mother was barren,” she said, sure she was right. “And your birth mother gave her and your father the greatest gift of all. You.”
If she expected him to be impressed by her deduction, she was mistaken. A shadow passed over his face, as though by laying out the facts so baldly she had somehow defiled him.
“Something like that.” There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. Before she could probe further he tugged her closer, her hair still wrapped around his fist. “What happened to your mother, Nimue?”
His question was so unexpected she gaped up at him. How did he know something had happened to her mother? She had never so much as breathed a word about her mother to him.
“Was she killed during the invasion?” He was frowning again and there was a note of regret in his voice, as if he knew the answer already. And only then did she remember her words to him when she’d thought his birth mother had continued her journey.
Her Roman was too astute when it came to her. The knowledge didn’t irk her, as it would if anyone else had shown such insight, but she didn’t want to dwell on that uncomfortable fact.
“Yes.” It was a simple answer for an event so traumatic she could barely bring herself to think of it. She hoped he wouldn’t press the issue, and after a brooding look that caused her heart to squeeze in her breast, Tacitus gave a barely perceptible nod and wrapped his free arm around her in silent comfort.
Her tense muscles relaxed and she breathed in deep, relishing his masculine scent and the way his touch caused
spirals of arousal to dance through her blood. She wound her arm around his tunic-clad waist and closed her eyes. She had to remember who she was and where her loyalty lay. But it didn’t ease the ache in her heart or the tightness in her throat. Tacitus’ heart thudded against her breasts, a bittersweet blend of comfort, desire and ultimate despair. How was it possible that one man could mean so much to her, when barely a quarter moon ago they hadn’t even met?
His race no longer mattered. She would never admit that aloud but it didn’t matter. Her confession seared her soul, condemned her for all time—and still she did not care.
“What are you thinking, Nimue?” His hand cradled the back of her head and held her close as if he feared she might otherwise escape.
She looked up at him. Tried, one last time, to see him as she had the first time they’d met. But it was futile. Because even that first time by the mountain stream she had seen him as more than merely her enemy.
“I’m thinking,” her voice was husky. She tried to clear her clogged throat, but it would not be cleared, “that I’m going to rip this Roman tunic from your body and have you at my mercy.”
He laughed, and the intoxicating sound ignited the embers glowing in her blood.
“I greatly anticipate being at your mercy.”
“As you should, Roman.” She tugged at his robe and finally slung the linen to the floor. Tacitus stood before her in all his naked glory, his tawny flesh taut, muscles flexed and with a lascivious smile on his face that caused her knees to tremble as if this was the first time she had seen an unclothed male.
“Do you like what you see, Celt?”
Her gaze dropped and she watched, fascinated, as his erection thickened before her eyes. “I have never seen anything better.”
Her words visibly aroused him further and he reached for her but she sidestepped his grasp. “You may look, but not touch.”
“You ask the impossible.”
Yes, she asked for the impossible but it was locked inside her heart and there it would remain. Because the foolish wish she harbored, that they might somehow forge a future together, was nothing more than that.
A foolish wish. And treacherous. Again she shoved her errant thoughts to the darkest corner of her mind. She wouldn’t spoil this night with hopes that could never be.
“You’ll be well rewarded for your patience.” She offered him a provocative smile and slowly peeled the linen from her body. Tacitus watched every movement, mesmerized. “Do you like what you see, Roman?”
His gaze dragged across her body and flames licked her skin as though he physically scorched her with merely a look. Then his eyes meshed with hers, captured her as easily as he had captured her on the day they’d met.
“I have never seen anything better.” His husky voice, with a trace of amusement at how he used her own words against her, enchanted her and she kicked the gown aside as she moved toward him.
Chapter 26
Once again Tacitus reached for her. Once again she avoided his touch. “Do you find it hard to follow orders?”
“Not usually. But my orders aren’t usually issued in my own kitchens by a naked seductress.”
She began to unbraid her hair, her gaze locked with his, willing victims of a dark bewitchment. “Has no woman ever given you orders, Tacitus?” She shook her loosened hair over her shoulders and hid a smile at the raw desire that flared in Tacitus’ eyes.
“No.” She saw the way he clenched his fists, fighting the need to reach for her yet again. “Does it please you to know you’re the first?”
“Very much.” She rested the tips of her fingers on his broad shoulders, their bodies all but touching. How hard it was to keep that whisper of distance between them. “It means you’ll never forget me.”
Of course he would never forget her. When she left with the prisoners, he would hate her for abusing his trust. But how desperately she wanted him to remember her with warmth and, perhaps, regret that they had never stood a chance.
He lowered his head so their lips brushed in a tantalizing caress. “Nimue, I believe I could never forget you even if I wanted to.”
She trailed her fingers along his biceps, delighting in the granite-hard strength of his muscles, and ignored the dull ache in her shoulder. Her injury wouldn’t stop her from enjoying this night, or prevent her from doing her duty tomorrow.
“I want this night to live on in your memory for all time.”
His focus sharpened, as if he glimpsed the true meaning behind her heartfelt whisper and panic punched low in her gut. She didn’t want anything to spoil this moment. Certainly not his suspicion.
She feathered a kiss across his lips as her palms molded his sculpted biceps. Her nipples grazed the hard planes of his chest, a torturous delight, and Tacitus’ moan sent tremors skittering over her naked flesh.
“How much longer am I under your command?” The raw edge to his question was deliciously arousing, and she nibbled kisses along the length of his jaw and down his throat, where his pulse hammered against her exploring lips.
“Until I tell you otherwise.” She slanted a glance up at him. He offered her a tortured grin in return. And did not touch.
She slid her fingers over his and then sucked his nipple into her mouth. He gave a strangled groan and his fingers gripped hers, and she smiled as her teeth nipped his sensitive flesh.
“Celtic enchantress.” He ground the words between his teeth and she couldn’t tell if he meant them as a compliment or a curse. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that she burned a memory into Tacitus’ mind. So that when the sting of her betrayal had faded into the distant past, he would recall these moments with her, and remember her with something other than derision.
Slowly, provocatively, she worked her way down his warrior hard body, exploring every ridge and contour with the tip of her tongue and graze of her teeth. Her nails scraped along his back and he jerked toward her but his fists remained clenched at his thighs.
She sank to her knees and looked up at him, feminine power thudding through her blood at the look of enslavement on Tacitus’ face. “Your self-control is admirable, Roman.” Her voice was breathless and her gaze slid down to his glorious erection. She wasn’t so sure of her own control. “I have no need of enchantment.”
“You enchant with every word you utter. With every look you give me.” His voice was hoarse. “I’ve never met another woman like you, Nimue.”
Her fingers dug into his taut buttocks at the thought that he might ever meet another woman. A woman he came back to every eve. A woman he shared his meals with, laughed with.
Trusted.
In the eyes of Rome, she was Tacitus’ slave but she knew full well that he didn’t consider her such. She was a Celt, and her people had been conquered. That was an irrefutable fact. But he treated her as if she was, as much as a woman ever could be to a Roman, his equal.
“And I have never met another man like you.” She wrapped her arms around his thigh and pressed her body against his leg. Her sex throbbed with unfulfilled need but her need would have to wait. “I know I never will.” Such confession would never have passed her lips in normal circumstances, but these were far from normal. And although tomorrow he might believe she had done nothing but lie to him, perhaps one day he would realize that in this matter she had spoken only the truth.
Slowly she raked her fingernails along the back of his thigh and down his calf. His fingers tangled in her hair, forcing her to look up at him.
“Gods, Nimue. What are you doing?” His eyes were glazed with lust and a frown marred his brow as though he couldn’t imagine why a woman would be on her knees before him unless she was taking him into her mouth.
“Driving you to distraction.” She slid the tip of her tongue across his knee and fought the urge to giggle at the look of astonishment on his face. Then she bit him and savored his taste before dragging her fingernails up from his ankle and over the taut muscle of his calf.
“You’re seducing my
leg.” He sounded scandalized, but it didn’t disguise the desire thundering through every word. “Is this a barbaric Celtic love ritual?”
Her foolish heart catapulted at his mention of love. But it was just a word, the same as barbaric was just a word, and he didn’t mean anything by it.
“No, it’s my own ritual. Has no other woman ever made love to your leg before?”
His fingers tightened in her hair and she relished the sparks of pain that danced across her scalp. Almost as much as she relished the look of amazement on his face.
“No woman has ever done the things you have to me. You could be a maiden of Aphrodite herself.”
She molded her body around him, her thighs entrapping his calf, and delighted in the scrape of his hair against her belly and breasts. “And is Aphrodite your goddess of sensual pleasure?”
His fingers massaged her head in a seductive rhythm that sent shudders of desire along her spine. “She is the Greek goddess of love.” His voice was raw with need but he didn’t haul her to her feet or throw her onto her back. Although she acknowledged she wouldn’t mind if he did either, the fact that he didn’t caused her chest to contract with a strange pain. “My mother is Greek.” The words were tortured, as though he confessed to something outrageous. Yet she already knew his mother wasn’t Roman. Otherwise he would worship the gods of Rome.
But he clearly thought it important. And because he’d shared something with her, she wanted to share something with him.
“My father is from Gaul.” It had always distressed her that her despised father’s lineage meant she was not a pureblood of Cymru but oddly, now that she knew Tacitus was not a pureblood Roman, her tainted heritage no longer seemed so devastating. “But I worship the gods of my foremothers.”
His smile was fractured. “Does your father still live?” He sounded as though it took great effort for him to ask the question. As if his thoughts inhabited another sphere entirely.
She slid her hand up his leg. Tantalizingly close to his impressive erection. She discovered she couldn’t tear her fascinated gaze away. “I don’t know.” And she didn’t care whether her cursed father was alive or dead. In this moment, all she cared about was bringing Tacitus to his knees. The image was alluring.
The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance Page 80