The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance

by Christina Phillips

  Who hadn’t even been aware of her existence.

  “What difference would it have made?” She flung the question at him as she struggled not to slump against the wall, wrap her arms around her waist, collapse onto the floor. “Why would a Roman wish to claim the child of a…a Celt?” They both knew she meant Druid. But even between them, she would not allow the word to pass her lips.

  His nostrils flared, as if she had insulted his honor. “It would have made a difference. I would never have abandoned the child of the woman I loved.”

  “Your pledges of undying devotion come too late.” Her chest hurt with the force of her heartbeat, and she still couldn’t breathe properly. She was lightheaded, akin to the sensation when she ascended into trance, but there was no sense of peace and joy in her soul. “They mean nothing to me, do you hear? Nothing.”

  As if she watched the scene from above she saw him grip her arms, obviously concerned she might fall. But she felt nothing, only the heavy thump of her heart and pound of her blood. Even her vision was dimming, as though storm clouds concealed the sun.

  “It’s not too late.” His urgent words penetrated the fog in her mind but they didn’t make sense. “I can erase all record of your capture and enslavement, Nimue. You’ll be free to return home. But grant me one small favor. Tell me where your mother is.”

  The dizziness vanished; the sense of unreality dissolved. She gasped in air, and tried to pull free but his grip on her tightened. “My mother?” Bone-deep sorrow flooded through her and twisted around her aching heart. “You want me to tell you about my mother?”

  “Yes.” His face was so close to hers she could see golden flecks in his eyes. Could see, also, the truth of his words when he declared his love. Somehow that inflamed her fury, magnified her grief.

  “Are you sure you want to know?” She fired the question into his face, and derived morbid satisfaction from the wariness that suddenly clouded his eyes. “Are you sure you can stomach it, Roman, knowing what your precious countrymen did to her?”

  Chapter 29

  Tacitus tried to ignore the insidious voice in the back of his mind that insisted he check on the slaves. He knew Nimue would be there. He’d informed the legionary on guard and his commander of the fact so there would be no misunderstanding either of Nimue’s motives or that she was there with his permission.

  There was no need to check on the slaves. Nimue was only giving them clean clothes and one of her teas. What did he imagine she might do armed with only a pile of gowns? Yet he kept seeing the determined gleam in her eyes when she’d asked his permission to give them to the slaves.

  He was under no illusion that even if he’d denied permission, she would have found a way to countermand his orders.

  It wasn’t that knowledge that disturbed him.

  He rounded the corner and caught sight of the prisoners’ block. And instantly saw his seamstress slumped on the ground, apparently deep in slumber.

  There was no sign of Nimue.

  Instinctively he glanced around the surrounding area but it was deserted. Black rage seared through his chest, a suffocating fog that filled his lungs and tightened his throat. Nimue had betrayed him.

  He reached the sleeping woman and glowered at her. A cup—one he recognized from his own kitchen—rested in her slack grasp. He jerked his gaze upward and saw the legionary propped against the wall. His eyes were closed.

  Tacitus cursed violently under his breath and dropped into a crouch. “Wake up.” He accompanied the order with a swift shake of the woman’s shoulders. “Where’s Nimue?”

  The woman stirred, muttered and opened one glazed eye. The rage coalesced in the pit of his gut, a savage, writhing fury he could barely contain. Nimue had used her herbs to drug them both. Herbs she had gathered right under his nose.

  “Get up.” He forced the command between his teeth, and hauled the woman to her feet. “Get back to my quarters and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.” He picked up the discarded amphorae and tipped the incriminating contents into the ground before thrusting it into her arms. “Do you understand?”

  She blinked, caught sight of his face and visibly blanched. “Yes, sir,” she whispered, bowing her head before she stumbled off.

  Tacitus reined in his urge to smash his fist in the insensible legionary’s face and instead shoved open the door to the prisoners’ quarters. It was empty. He knew it would be empty but still another scorching flame of betrayal seared through his chest.

  Nimue had released the prisoners but it wasn’t that fact that hammered through his brain or razed his senses. It was the knowledge that she had taken his trust, trampled it beneath her feet and escaped him at the first opportunity.

  He marched around the corner, hands fisted, teeth clenched. She wouldn’t have gone without Caratacus’ queen and daughter. He no longer needed to hide from the truth that had been obvious from the moment he and Nimue had met.

  She was no ordinary Celtic noblewoman. If she had been, she wouldn’t have been alone by that mountain stream. She wouldn’t have stood her ground, holding a dagger, unless she had been trained in self-defense. Nor was she simply a gifted healer who’d been traveling with the Britannia queen.

  She was a Druid. Why else would she risk death by staging such a daring rescue of her people? How could he have allowed her delicate beauty to blind him to what she truly was?

  Bitterly he acknowledged the truth. It hadn’t. He’d chosen to remain in ignorance because the consequences, had he faced his suspicions, had been unthinkable.

  Now he would pay the price for that self-illusion.

  It was too much to hope that she was in the adjoining building preparing the queen for escape, and yet still he hoped. The alternative—the Legion hunting her down—was too horrific to imagine.

  “Tell me where your mother is.” The commander’s voice, muted yet with an oddly desperate tone, stopped Tacitus dead in his tracks. Was his commander in the queen’s prison?

  “My mother?”

  The familiar voice caused his heart to jackknife. Against the odds, Nimue was still there. But the savage relief that spiked through him was instantly shattered. She was in there—with his commander.

  “You want me to tell you about my mother?” The incredulity in her voice hammered through his brain, melding with his own. Why in Hades was his commander asking Nimue about her mother?

  “Yes.”

  Gods, he didn’t know where the commander was going with this conversation, but it didn’t bode well for Nimue. He couldn’t imagine how she and his commander had ended up together but one certainty pounded through his mind.

  So far, his commander was in ignorance of Nimue’s involvement in the slaves’ escape. If he knew, then he certainly wouldn’t be questioning her about her maternal heritage. And then a torch flared in his mind and his chest tightened. There was only one reason why his commander should ask such a question and that was if he suspected her bloodline.

  Tacitus reached the door. Saw Nimue in the commander’s arms.

  “Are you sure you want to know?” There was a savage note in her voice. “Are you sure you can stomach it, Roman, knowing what your precious countrymen did to her?”

  “Fuck, Nimue.” The words burst from him as he grabbed her arms and ripped her from his commander. Did she have a death wish? Was she completely insane?

  “For five days they kept her. Tortured her. Tried to break her body and spirit—”

  He shook her in horror, for once uncaring about her injured shoulder. “Nimue, be silent—”

  “Those bastard Romans raped her, beat her with chains and leather—”

  Tacitus’ stomach roiled and for a moment he glanced at the commander, a section of his mind wondering at his continued silence; wondering why an order not to render her unconscious hadn’t been issued his way.

  But his commander wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was riveted on Nimue, seemingly bewitched, and there was a sickly pallor to his skin.

&n
bsp; “And then they lashed her naked and broken body on a cross. Crucified her because she wouldn’t betray her people for your cowardly Emperor—”

  Tacitus dragged her forcibly back against his body and wrapped his hand over her mouth. She was shaking as if she had a fever, and his fury at her treachery seeped from his veins in sickened disgust.

  No wonder she hated Rome. No wonder she’d attempted to escape at the first opportunity. But he didn’t have time to comfort her, even if such a feat could be possible. He had to somehow placate his commander. Convince him Nimue was out of her mind, not in control of her tongue. Inspiration struck. He would say she had been drugged and couldn’t be held accountable for her actions.

  “Sir—”

  His commander looked at him and the rest of his words jolted from his mind. In the space of moments the older man had aged before Tacitus’ eyes, and a shudder inched along his spine. Was this some strange Druid magic of Nimue’s?

  “Caratacus’ queen and daughter are being sent to Rome tomorrow.” Despite his ashen appearance, his commander’s voice was the same as it had always been. “Ensure Nimue is kept under control, Tribune. Her safety cannot be guaranteed if you allow her free rein.”

  He’d already made that decision. Nimue would be confined to his quarters now and it had nothing to do with her safety and everything to do with…

  For a moment his thoughts halted, uncertain. Was it truly only his pride she had wounded?

  “Yes, sir.” At this moment nothing else mattered but getting Nimue away from his commander. If his superior officer suspected she was a Druid, he wouldn’t have allowed her to remain with Tacitus. They were too valuable; and after all information had been extracted from them they were publicly executed as a warning and reminder of the might of the Roman Empire.

  As he dragged an uncooperative Nimue from the building, the pit of his stomach churned at the thought of her being crucified. She stumbled against him and he released his restraining hold across her mouth. She hitched in a ragged breath, and the vulnerability of that small, broken sound stabbed through his heart.

  She was a Druid. It was his duty to report his suspicions. His loyalty to his Emperor, to Rome and his family honor dictated nothing less.

  He gripped her arm and marched her toward his quarters, avoiding the deserted slaves’ building. Nimue was a native of the most hated people of his Emperor. He knew it and he would deny the truth of her heritage with his dying breath.

  She pulled up suddenly and he rounded on her, rage at his conflicted loyalties pounding through his blood. But she wasn’t glaring at him, wasn’t trying to escape. Instead she merely swayed on her feet and her pale face and oddly blank eyes caused another wave of cursed protectiveness to smash through him.

  Was he destined to battle what was considered the norm for his society for the rest of his life? He’d always thought there could be nothing worse than the familial conflicts that plagued his conscience.

  He had been wrong.

  “Forgive me,” she said in an oddly dignified voice. “I am going to be ill.” Then she slipped from his loosened grasp, fell to her knees and was violently sick.

  For two days Tacitus had managed to avoid a conversation with Nimue. He left before she awoke in the morning and returned late at night after she’d gone to bed. Then he woke her, kissing her treacherous lips, invading her willing mouth and pussy until she writhed with orgasmic pleasure beneath him. She never turned away. Never pushed him back. She wanted his body as desperately as he wanted hers. But it was never enough. Because never a word passed between them.

  He couldn’t trust himself to speak to her. Couldn’t trust what she might confess in return. He hadn’t been able to confiscate her embroidered bag, despite the fact that she possessed it only proved, yet again, how she’d gone behind his back. But how could he take it from her when she had stood before him, silent, vulnerable, broken?

  He’d taken her collection of herbs though. And it had given him no pleasure to burn them but how could he trust her not to one night drug him with them?

  “There’s a storm coming.” His commander’s voice penetrated his tortured thoughts and he hauled himself back to the present. Despite the uproar when it was discovered the Cambrian slaves had escaped, his commander hadn’t demanded that Nimue be interrogated. The legionary on guard had been held fully responsible and the man’s honor hadn’t allowed him to attempt to shift the blame to a mere woman. A slave, no less.

  But it was strange that the commander apparently made no connection with Nimue. Tacitus still didn’t know how they had both ended up in the queen’s room.

  Nimue’s name was the last thing he intended to bring up with his commander. And he wasn’t speaking at all to Nimue.

  But it was slowly eating him alive.

  “Sir.” The reply was automatic. He had no idea whether a storm was brewing or not. As far as he could tell, it had been a perfectly normal summer for this primitive province. Chilly and unpredictable.

  They stood outside the commander’s quarters and the older man, hands clasped behind his back, stared up into the dusky twilight sky. Tacitus quickly looked away again. Since the confrontation with Nimue, his commander had been far less gregarious than usual. Blandus had passed comment on his uncle’s changed attitude just that afternoon and Tacitus had brushed it aside. But it confirmed one thing. His commander hadn’t confided anything about Nimue to his nephew.

  “Haven’t you noticed, Tacitus?” Still the commander stared into the sky apparently fascinated by the blackness. “There’s been no sign of the moon since we crushed Caratacus. The Celts’ gods do not rest easy.”

  Tacitus had an instant vision of the exquisite engravings on Nimue’s silver jewelry and the embroidery of her bag. They showed the passage of the moon. He knew she worshipped Arianrhod, the Celt goddess of the moon. Against his better judgment, he followed his commander’s gaze. The sky loomed, dark and ominous, without a single pinprick of distant light.

  “In time they too will succumb to the gods of Rome.” It was an automatic answer; one he didn’t fully believe in. How could he, when he favored the gods of Greece over the gods of his forefathers?

  The commander was silent for so long Tacitus thought the conversation over, and silent relief washed through him. He didn’t want to think about the Celtic gods or the Celtic priests and priestesses who communed with them. Yet it seemed everything reminded him of Nimue.

  “Will they?” The commander turned his brooding gaze to Tacitus. “Should they?”

  Unease prickled the outer edges of his mind. Was his commander uttering a rhetorical question?

  “Go back to your Celt.” It was a command and Tacitus stiffened, every sense on full alert. “Enjoy her while you can, Tacitus. And when the time comes, remember your pledge. Bring her to me and I’ll pay whatever you demand—for her manumission.”

  Chapter 30

  Once again, Nimue ate the eve’s meal by herself. It was served to her in a frosty silence but she couldn’t blame Tacitus’ servants for their attitude. Not after what she’d done to one of their own. The seamstress hadn’t come near her since that morn, two days ago.

  She pushed her half-eaten meal away. Tacitus had barely come near her since he’d dragged her away from his commander. My father. She still couldn’t think of him in that way without her stomach knotting and breath strangling her throat. In her heart she knew it wasn’t a coincidence. They had been destined to meet by the gods. But whose gods? Hers?

  Or his?

  She sat on the edge of Tacitus’ casket and attempted to regulate her breathing. She’d wondered how he’d react when he discovered her betrayal. She had never imagined witnessing it firsthand.

  The reality was far worse than anything her mind had conjured. He hadn’t yelled at her. Beaten or berated her. If he had, she might have convinced herself that she didn’t love him. But if Tacitus had been the kind of man to whip or brutalize her, then she would never have fallen in love with him in th
e first place.

  Nimue had prayed, begged, that somehow she could see Tacitus again when her mission was over. And her wish had been granted. She had seen Tacitus again. And failed, with spectacular disgrace, in her pledge to save the Briton queen and her daughter from slavery.

  For two days, she’d wallowed in self-recrimination at her failure. For two days, she had reeled between shock and reluctant fascination at the discovery of her father. For two torturous days and nights, she had battled the hopeless realization of how deeply she’d fallen for her Roman captor.

  She couldn’t—wouldn’t—continue this way. She had no idea what Tacitus intended to do with her. When he took her in the dead of night, he never said a word, although her foolish heart imagined that his touch and his lips told her everything she secretly desired.

  He had taken from her the means to prevent conception and yet he always ensured he used his Roman condom. As if even now, when she knew how deeply he despised her, he still afforded her enough consideration to respect her wishes that she didn’t want to conceive his child.

  She brushed the tips of her fingertips across her belly. Arianrhod had turned her back on her, but her Moon Goddess had prevented her from taking the womb cleansing tea two morns ago for a reason.

  Despite all their precautions, she had conceived his babe. It had been foretold in her vision; blessed by Arianrhod. And although only days ago such an outcome would have devastated Nimue, now the prospect of having Tacitus’ child filled her with a maelstrom of primal love, protectiveness and an overwhelming sense of awe.

  Was this how her mother had felt when she knew she had conceived Nimue? Twenty-three summers ago the Romans had not yet invaded Britain, but Gaul had already succumbed to the Eagle. The Romans wouldn’t have been her mother’s deadly enemy the same way they were hers. But even so, they were foreign barbarians and the threat of the Legions crossing the narrow sea into Britain was always an acknowledged threat.