The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance

by Christina Phillips

  Nimue stood and took a step back. He could no longer see her face but he could feel the tension vibrating in the air between them. “I’m a warrior, Tacitus. Yes, I did this to prevent him from killing you. Would you do less for me?”

  “That’s not—” He bit off his words and clenched his teeth. Of course he would kill any man who tried to harm Nimue. But she was a woman. She needed to be protected and shielded from the brutality of war. It wasn’t her place to rescue him.

  “I’m sorry my actions displease you.” There was an odd formality in her tone and bizarrely it reminded him of when she’d been ill after freeing the slaves. Except what did she mean? He wasn’t displeased. He couldn’t grasp how he felt about it, except that nothing in his life had prepared him for being saved from certain death by…

  A woman.

  “But know this.” In the deepening shadows he saw her straighten and his chest tightened with pride. She looked so fragile, his Nimue, and yet she possessed a strength he’d rarely encountered. “I don’t regret it. And I would do it again in a heartbeat if the alternative was your death.”

  He reached for her and took her hand. She didn’t fall into his arms. He hadn’t expected her to. A dozen responses collided in his mind but there was only one thing he needed to tell her.

  “Then as fellow warriors we are in accord, Nimue. I would defy my Emperor himself to ensure you lived.” He already had. But her soft laugh, and the way she squeezed his fingers, told him that his decision to relinquish a career in Rome was no sacrifice at all.

  She led him deeper into the forest, her step unerring. The rough clothes didn’t fit properly and although he’d refused to give up his sword he was naked without his armor. But he would endure a great deal more if it ensured that Nimue would eventually listen to his proposal with respect.

  A flickering light glowed up ahead. As they approached, he saw it was a torch rammed into the ground. Nimue wrenched it up and turned to face him, and his heart slammed against his ribs.

  He knew she was no longer wearing a Roman gown, but now the light illuminated her he saw the strange, barbaric markings on her face and arms. Her hair was braided and she looked like a wild savage, except he knew the vision was an illusion.

  Because, Cambrian or not, Druid or not, Nimue was as refined, as knowledgeable and as intelligent as any patrician male of his acquaintance.

  She thrust the torch at him and then pulled out a small pot from her bag. “I need to paint your face.” She sounded apologetic but it didn’t stop her from dipping her finger into the pot. “It will stop any suspicious glance. And Tacitus, there’s something you must promise me.”

  “That depends what it is.” Gods, what primitive ritual had he walked into? He no longer believed the rumors he’d heard about Druid sacrifices, but unease still knotted his gut.

  “If I fail this night, you must promise to save yourself.” With the tip of her finger she daubed the cold paint across his cheekbones. “If Gwydion, the god of Illusion, succeeds in claiming Arianrhod’s destiny for his own then he’ll destroy everything. Celt and Roman—it makes no difference in his quest for power.”

  He had no idea what she meant, but one thing was certain. He had no intention of allowing her to continue with what she had planned.

  “Let another do this.” He gripped her arm and glared into her face. “You don’t need to put yourself in danger. The gods always fight for power between themselves. Nothing we do will ever change that.”

  She didn’t try to pull away. Perhaps it was a trick of the flickering light from the torch, but for a moment sorrow wreathed her face. “I can’t let my beloved Moon Goddess fade into the shadows.” Her voice was gentle, as if she explained something to a child. “Gwydion would subjugate her utterly, and destroy all traces of her precious knowledge. Her wisdom must be preserved for balance to prevail.”

  Despite the warmth from the torch, shivers scuttled over his arms. Once again she sounded like an Oracle, channeling obscure prophesies from egomaniacal gods. He could easily end this now. It would take little effort to forcibly take Nimue back to the garrison where she would be safe from the manipulations of her goddess.

  And any hope of a future together, the kind of future he wanted, would be irrevocably shattered.

  “My lady.” The masculine voice came from the shadows and Tacitus swung around, instinctively reaching for his sword. Nimue grasped his hand and moved in front of him.

  “I am ready.” She sounded like an empress. She sounded like a priestess. He wouldn’t stop her from doing what she considered her duty. But he wouldn’t stand by and allow her to be sacrificed on the altar of barbaric gods and goddesses who cared only for their own immortal posterity.

  Chapter 36

  Standing in the shadows behind Nimue as she stood before a primitive stone altar, Tacitus remained rigid as the Celts danced with apparent abandon in the small clearing. Pungent incense smoldered at various points on the altar and a strange blue fire, contained within a shallow bowl, burned in the center of the altar.

  It was nothing like the civilized temples of Rome and yet the primal thud of the drums touched a raw nerve deep in the core of his being.

  But it was Nimue who held his riveted attention. She’d loosened her hair and in the eerie blue light, the markings on her face made her look breathtakingly savage. With utmost concentration, she focused on the unnatural fire, chanting in a language he’d never heard before, a language that sent a trickle of primal awe along his spine.

  It was easy to imagine, in this ancient Cambrian forest, that she spoke an archaic tongue known only to the gods and their chosen ones.

  A wind sprung up from nowhere, swirling forest debris around ankles and thighs. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword although he knew it was a useless reaction. A god, even a heathen god, could not be slayed by mortal weapon.

  The darkness around the perimeter of the glade, where imposing monoliths loomed, coalesced. Tacitus narrowed his eyes. Were the flames playing tricks? But the great shadow lengthened until it towered over the treetops. A black nothingness in the massive shape of a man.

  A god.

  If he hadn’t been paralyzed by the sight, Tacitus might have joined the Celts as they collapsed onto the ground, prostrate before the immortal being. But he wasn’t of Cambria. He was of Rome and the only gods he knelt before were those who had shaped his childhood.

  Mouth dry, he watched the great shadow glide across the clearing toward Nimue. She hadn’t fallen to her knees. She remained ramrod straight and even above the cacophony of the wind he could hear her mystical chant.

  She picked up something from the altar. It looked like her precious shard of bluestone. Mesmerized, Tacitus watched her hold out her hands above the flickering blue flames. And then, before he realized her intent, she sliced open her wrist with the sharp stone, and her blood dripped into the bowl.

  He cursed violently and jerked forward. It felt as if iron bands restrained him and he grunted with effort. What in Hades was she doing?

  “Gwydion.” Her voice rose above the infuriated pounding of his heart. “Warrior God. Greatest of the Enchanters. I see through your false illusions.”

  She plunged her hand, holding the stone, into the bowl. The god-creature roared, a sound of bone-crushing fury, as the flames encompassed her. Instantly each monolith surrounding the glade cracked like thunder, split like lightning and spewed luminous violet flames into the skies.

  “Nimue.” He staggered from the enchantment that held him at the same moment that the malignant god fell onto the collapsed figure of Nimue. Raw terror propelled Tacitus forward and he wound his arms around Nimue’s waist and dragged her from the altar, dragged her from the jaws of vengeance. She was unconscious, blood covered her arm and the hand that had held the bluestone looked gray.

  Vile blackness engulfed him. He could feel Nimue being sucked from his grasp. He couldn’t release her to draw his sword. What use was his sword anyway?

  “H
eathen idol.” He spat the words into the night, the only weapons he possessed. “Your time has passed. You are nothing.”

  Thunder rumbled across the sky and the thick clouds parted, revealing a dazzling display of stars. The black shadow howled, lost shape, became nebulous and was then swept away in the swirling wind that circled the glade. From the corner of his eye, he saw the panic struck Celts flee from the clearing but he didn’t care about the Celts. He only cared about the woman in his arms who hadn’t moved since she had defied her god.

  “Nimue, wake up.” He crouched over her and pushed her hair off her face with a hand that shook. What would he do if she never woke up? “You can’t leave me.” The words hurt his throat, his chest, his heart.

  Her eyes opened and she looked at him as if he was all that mattered in her world. He wanted to crush her in his arms, wrap her in a protective cocoon and never let her out of his sight. A foolish fantasy. His life with Nimue would never follow such a predictable pattern.

  He wouldn’t want it to.

  She began to smile as he lowered his head toward her. Just to taste her lips. Just to reassure himself that she was still in the world of mortals. That her vindictive god hadn’t won.

  A strong hand clamped on his shoulder and thrust him back. Tacitus swung around, one arm still supporting Nimue, and the acidic words died on his tongue. His commander stood by his side, his gaze riveted on Nimue.

  His commander? His brain couldn’t comprehend what his eyes told him. He watched as the older man sank to his knees and gripped Nimue’s uninjured hand. What the fuck was he doing? Had it been his commander’s presence he’d felt following him from the garrison?

  “Nimue.” The commander’s voice held a tone that Tacitus had never heard before. If it was not so ridiculous, the commander sounded as shaken as Tacitus felt. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me as she did. Let me give you what she would never accept.”

  “Get your hands off her.” Unheeding of what his actions might cost his career, Tacitus knocked the commander’s hand from Nimue’s. “She’s no longer a slave. She is no longer beholden to any man.” Not even to him.

  Nimue struggled to sit up, and he held her securely against his chest. His commander didn’t attempt to interfere.

  “Arianrhod is free.” Her voice was hoarse but her smile was as radiant as the sun. “Your belief in me caused the last chains imprisoning her to crumble. My Goddess deems you a worthy warrior, Tacitus, despite your Roman blood.”

  “Stay with me.” The words sounded harsh, sounded like an order. Obscurely he realized the commander had asked the same of her. He had to explain what he meant but had no wish to discuss it in front of the older man.

  “Yes.” Her response was so soft he wondered if he’d misheard. Of course he’d misheard. Nimue would never agree to anything so swiftly. Certainly not something like this.

  “Wait.” He sounded desperate. Gods, his career was over. His commander would see to that. No man spoke to a woman in such a manner. At least they certainly didn’t in front of their commanding officer. “Let me explain.”

  “No.” She pressed a finger against his lips. “I want to be with you, Tacitus. I know I could find my people. But it won’t be the same. Because my heart is with you.”

  All the arguments he’d prepared in an attempt to persuade her to stay with him vanished. “You won’t regret this decision. You’ll be accorded all due respect as befits your status.” He wanted to kiss her, to reassure her that all would be well. But he was acutely aware of the silent figure of his commander by his side. “You’ll be my wife in all but name.”

  A strange look came over her face and bizarrely she looked at the commander. Surely the light dazzled his eyes, because why would she look at his commander with compassion?

  “Wouldn’t your noble patricians ostracize you for that? It’s one thing to keep a concubine. Surely it’s another to keep a foreigner, an enemy of your Emperor, in such an elevated status?”

  Still she gazed at his commander. He had the strangest sensation that an unspoken message passed between them, but that was impossible. The events of the night were addling his brain.

  “No one would question your status. But that is irrelevant. I’ll pursue my career in the Legions. Then you won’t have to face the hypocrisy of Rome.”

  She looked at him in what appeared to be horror. “But what of your desire to study law? You can’t give that up. I know how much that means to you—”

  “Enough.” The commander barely raised his voice but fury thundered through the word regardless. “We need never have returned to Rome. She knew I didn’t care about taking my place in the Senate. I would have given up everything for her. But she wanted nothing but a meaningless liaison.”

  Tacitus stared at his commander as ice trickled along his flesh. Yet again the older man spoke to Nimue in words that didn’t quite make sense. Who was he talking about? And why would he say such things to Nimue in any case?

  “You’re wrong,” Nimue whispered. “She once told me she loved you with all her heart. I don’t know why she left but it wasn’t because you meant nothing to her.”

  Tacitus tore his gaze from his commander and stared at Nimue. Her attention was fixed on the older man, and with a dread fascination, Tacitus once again looked at his commander. Something stabbed through his chest and the world tipped.

  The first time he’d met Nimue there had been something familiar about her. He hadn’t known what, just that he’d had the strangest certainty that they’d met before.

  They never had. But he knew why she looked familiar to him. It was because she possessed the same eyes as her father.

  His commander.

  “Shit.” The word slid out, unbidden. Nimue was the daughter of a high-ranking patrician. The blood of Rome flowed in her veins. Jagged thoughts ripped through his mind. If his commander acknowledged her as his daughter there was a good chance the Emperor would approve a marriage between Tacitus and Nimue.

  But what were the chances of that? It wasn’t as if Nimue was a son.

  “Do you have something to say, Tribune?” The commander rounded on him. “Or are you simply pissed that your magnanimous plans of using my daughter as your concubine are crumbling before your eyes?”

  For a torturous moment, the vision of his seventeen half-sisters flashed through his mind. Noble blood ran through their veins, just as much as it did his. But in the eyes of Rome they were merely the bastards of freed slaves.

  “At least I’ll acknowledge to the entire world that any child of Nimue’s is my child also. Son or daughter I would be proud to claim as mine.”

  The commander heaved himself to his feet and glowered down at Tacitus. “I intend to acknowledge my daughter. And as her father I also intend to ensure she has everything that her status deserves.”

  Nimue made a sound in the back of her throat and staggered to her feet. Tacitus kept his arm around her. She didn’t attempt to pull away although she did shoot him an exasperated glance.

  “Your concern is touching.” She glanced at the commander—her father—then back at him. “But I have status of my own and don’t require the approval of Rome to do as I wish with my life.”

  “Nevertheless, as my daughter, as my only child, you will receive it.” The way the commander looked at her, he obviously expected a fight. “Whether you choose to live in Rome or her provinces you will be accorded the respect due to your rank.”

  Finally the words penetrated the seething thoughts pounding through Tacitus’ brain. The commander intended to recognize Nimue?

  Nimue gave an odd smile, clearly touched by the commander’s orders. “If it means that much to you, then I accept. As long as you understand I’ll never be an obedient Roman daughter at the mercy of her father’s whims.”

  “I would expect nothing less from the daughter of your mother.”

  Nimue’s smile faded. “The people I freed—the people here this night. Will you pursue them?”

  The commander’s
jaw tightened before he let out a measured breath. “The escaped slaves will not be found. And nothing happened here tonight.”

  Stunned, Tacitus stared at his commander. He had committed treason with his words, just as much as Tacitus had by refusing to voice his suspicions about Nimue. Slowly he turned to look at the woman who stood between them. The woman who united them in their betrayal against their Emperor’s decree.

  Protocol demanded that his father choose Tacitus’ bride. That Tacitus sought approval from his prospective bride’s father before the woman herself was consulted.

  To Hades with protocol. Once the commander officially adopted her, Nimue would be a Roman citizen. His father would be only too pleased to see an alliance between the two families. As for his commander, Tacitus had the suspicion he would do anything to ensure his daughter’s happiness.

  The only obstacle, as far as he could see, was Nimue herself. She’d finally agreed to be his concubine. But he wanted so much more than that. He realized that he always had.

  But what did she want?

  He took her injured hand, and her skin felt dry like autumn leaves. He’d never imagined asking a woman such a question in the dead of night in the middle of a forest in a far flung province of the Empire. And yet, despite the looming presence of her father, the surroundings were perfect to ask Nimue the most important question of his life.

  But the words were the hardest ones he’d ever spoken. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  She looked up at him, his beautiful savage, and it was hard to breathe.

  “Why?”

  A section of his mind acknowledged the grunt of laughter from the commander, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from Nimue’s upturned face. Why? How could she ask him such a thing?

  “Because you’re mine.” He glared at her and realized that was only half the reason. “And I am yours.”