The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  It was different now. No longer the place that resided in his memories. But beneath the gaudy Roman veneer it was still the birthplace of his maternal blood kin.

  He jerked his head toward the building in silent command, and with a dark, sideways glance she obeyed.

  “The Romans must think highly of you if they trust you with their secrets.” The way she said it left no doubt that she wasn’t offering him a compliment.

  “They do.” Not enough to ordinarily trust him with such a mission. These top-level dispatches were usually entrusted only to Roman officers of the cavalry, not foreign auxiliaries, no matter how impressive their equine skills.

  It had not been without risk of discovery, but his persistent contamination of the food chain had finally borne fruit, and dozens of legionaries were convinced Charon waited in the shadows to ferry them across their cursed Styx. Added to the usual numbers of injured and sick, the Legion was severely undermanned. And so he, because of Dunmacos’ reputation from the past and his own actions in the present, had been given the honor.

  He swiftly dealt with the formalities of changing horses and didn’t miss the furtive glances the post house master shot Morwyn’s way. It was obvious he thought Bren responsible for the woman’s battered state.

  Another outrage to add to Dunmacos’ foul reputation. Gods, he loathed the man, even though the man had been dead these last three years. The identity he’d assumed clung to him like a cloud of putrid flies. Sometimes he doubted he’d ever be able to scrub the residue from his soul.

  When the fresh horse was ready he once again mounted first and hauled Morwyn up in front, her fingers strong as they gripped his arm, her luscious lips compressed in uncompromising disapproval.

  And once again she held herself rigid and proud, as if his slightest touch repelled her.

  He dumped the bundle of bread and dates between her thighs and she stiffened further, as if he’d attempted to grope her. Irritation, edged with raw lust, knifed low in his gut. He’d told her he wouldn’t touch her unless she wanted him to. But then, why should she believe him, when she thought him a traitor to his own people?

  “Eat.” It was a harsh command. “There’ll be nothing else until we stop for the night.”

  * * *

  Morwyn gripped the saddle with both hands and gritted her teeth. How much longer did this barbarian intend them to travel? The sun was sinking on the horizon and she was in sore need to relieve herself. But she’d rather bite off her tongue than confess to such weakness.

  Twice they’d changed horses since leaving the forest. He’d scarcely uttered two words to her. Not that she wanted to converse with him. But curse the gods, she would do almost anything to abandon riding and rest her head for the night.

  Except before she could rest, she would have to submit to his bestial cravings. Anticipation shivered through her womb and dampened her sensitive core. Her fingers dug more securely into the timber-framed saddle and she glared at the handful of circular wattle-and-daub huts in a village some distance from the newly constructed Roman road.

  She would enjoy multiple orgasms this night with the enemy of her people. And each one would be a spear through the heart of the Morrigan. Each one mock the twisted soul of Aeron.

  Gawain would never know.

  Heat, heavy and languorous, licked her sensitive clit. She tensed the muscles in her legs and fought the overpowering urge to squirm, to relieve at least one pressure, because soon she wouldn’t have to ignore her body’s demands anymore. Soon, this Gaul bastard would take her and she could slake her pent-up lust without guilt or shame.

  The Briton village receded and up ahead she saw Roman-built dwellings, and relief washed through her as she felt the horse slow. Her spine was fit to splinter. How often during this interminable journey had she battled against the desire to relax her muscles and sink back against the Gaul’s unyielding chest?

  As he pulled up outside the largest building she slashed her treacherous thoughts. She would have him. But she would never show him the slightest weakness. An enemy used vulnerability for his own gain.

  Limbs stiff to the point of inflexibility, she allowed him to help her dismount. His hands were surprisingly gentle, as if he guessed her fatigue. Instantly she straightened, ignoring the way her bones burned in protest, and shot him a sharp glance.

  For a moment she imagined she saw an oddly brooding expression in his green eyes, as if he regretted making her ride so hard without first tending her injuries. But then he turned away, barked orders at a terrified-looking boy, and marched into the building.

  After a brief hesitation she followed him. There wasn’t anyplace else she could go. But still that odd look haunted her, burying inside her brain as if trying to show her something of infinite importance.

  Whispers drifted through her mind but they made no sense. Impatiently she knocked them aside, dismissed them.

  Yet still they lingered. Insistent and intruding. An intriguing, if impossible, supposition.

  I am the Gaul’s vulnerability.

  * * *

  The inside of this Roman dwelling was, like the previous two they’d stopped at, constructed from timber and stone, and the walls were straight like their roads, not curved like the Briton roundhouses. But it was larger, different, and she was reminded of the taverns and brothels that had sprung up around the Roman fortifications in her beloved Cymru.

  The Gaul—she couldn’t bring herself to use his name, even inside her own mind, as if that would somehow diminish the extent of his enmity—was talking to the innkeeper. Morwyn walked as regally as she could manage across the stone floor toward them. She was no slave to remain in the background. No meek Roman matron who hovered behind her master. Only when she reached the Gaul’s side did she remember her plan to show subservience in order to make him lower his guard around her.

  Too late now. Not that he appeared to notice her. He was too busy issuing commands of the innkeeper, who, after one swift glance at her, riveted his attention on the Gaul.

  “And make sure the water’s hot,” he said in Latin, by way of dismissal, and the innkeeper all but bowed in his anxiety to assure him the water would, most certainly, be hot.

  Morwyn clutched her gown and fisted her fingers in the soft fabric. She couldn’t think of water. Anything but water. And she could no longer deny her need. She’d have to ask.

  “This way.” The Gaul barely glanced at her. “The inn has private latrines.”

  She hobbled after him, no longer able to keep up her haughty pretense, but since he wasn’t looking at her that didn’t matter. They bypassed the tavern where drunken men groped half-clad, dull-eyed girls, and went toward the back of the building where he led her into a side room.

  She pulled up short and stared at the long bench, with its six openings cut into the timber seat. Affront bubbled deep in her gut, which served only to aggravate her pressing need further.

  “I don’t use Roman conveniences.” She emphasized the word so he would be in no doubt as to her opinion of such foreign intrusions.

  He shrugged and finally looked at her. His face was all hard lines and uncompromising angles and again his eyes fascinated her, in a way nothing about him should fascinate her.

  “Suit yourself.” He planted himself down. “It’s here or nowhere. You’re not going outside.”

  She glared at him, then flung a withering look at the nearest opening. It looked . . . disgusting.

  “I refuse to sit on something countless others have placed their naked arses upon.” She curled her toes and couldn’t prevent swaying. “It’s unclean.”

  “Then squat.”

  Bastard. She hiked up her gown and angled herself over the loathsome hole.

  “I suppose you prefer this barbaric method, do you?” She tossed him a resentful glance and struggled to keep her balance with her protesting muscles. Ah. The relief shimmered through like countless minuscule orgasms. Bliss.

  “In truth? Yes. I find it preferable to diggin
g my own hole.”

  Curse the gods, was he laughing at her? Or was she imagining that annoying quirk to his lips? As if he found her predicament amusing?

  “I, on the other hand,” she said with more hauteur than her current position warranted, “prefer the sanctified rituals of my ancestors.”

  She almost lost her precarious balance when his lips jerked into a definite grin. It vanished within an instant, as if it had crept upon him unawares, but gods. What a difference it made to his harsh features. For one oddly lingering moment she wished she could extend that lightening of his countenance; wipe the ingrained lines from his brow and the grim set to his mouth.

  Before she had the chance to digest such treacherous thoughts, a man stumbled into the room, obviously a Briton by his hair and clothing. His lecherous leer floundered when she turned toward him, and then the Gaul was on his feet, in front of her, shielding her from the other’s eyesight.

  Unsure what to make of that, she shot a scandalized glance at the sponge on a stick, which was clearly designed as some kind of cleaning device, and shuddered in horror.

  “I’m finished.” She stepped forward and he instantly moved out of her way as if physical contact with her was the last thing he wanted. Probably because she was still covered in the residue of her earlier battle. Well, if he allowed her outside, she could find a stream, couldn’t she, and cleanse herself? Because did he really imagine she enjoyed being covered in dried blood and gore from her enemies?

  The Briton muttered something under his breath, the only words she caught being whore and fucking Gauls.

  “You,” the Gaul said in a strangely quiet voice, “shut your fucking mouth.” And then he smashed his fist into the Briton’s face, sending him sprawling across the latrines.

  Chapter 5

  It was the cold ferocity of the Gaul that stunned Morwyn into silence. She was used to violence, men fought over the most trivial of slights. It wasn’t his reaction to the slur aimed his way that shocked her.

  If he’d lost his temper and continued with his attack on the bleeding Briton, she could have understood his initial, bone-crunching punch. But he simply turned toward her, placed his hand between her shoulder blades and propelled her from the room as if nothing had happened.

  She let out a shaky breath. His fingers scorched her flesh through her gown, even though his touch was so light as to be nonexistent.

  The hand he’d used on the Briton just moments ago.

  “Do you attack every man who makes a passing insult on your heritage?” If so, he’d spend most of his time fighting. Maybe he enjoyed it, even if it didn’t show on his face or in his eyes.

  “No.” His fingers slid along her spine, causing heated shivers to plague her flesh, before he finally severed contact. “That wasn’t the reason I hit him.”

  Gods, what did he mean by that? That he attacked without provocation, without reason? Would he have floored the Briton even if the man had been a mute?

  The knowledge should concern her. Such unprovoked flashes of violence could erupt at any moment, without any forewarning. If he broke a stranger’s nose without blinking, he could just as easily snap her neck without a second thought.

  Yet, bizarrely, she wasn’t afraid of him. And it made no sense because he was her enemy, she was his captive, and an unfounded certainty that he wouldn’t use his fists on her couldn’t be trusted.

  Despite his outward facade of calm, he was unstable. If she wanted to remain alive, she’d do well to remember that.

  And yet she’d done nothing but insult him since the moment he’d flung the other Gaul bastard from her. Not once had he even raised his voice, let alone his hand. Not once had she felt her life was threatened or safety endangered.

  For a moment her convictions wavered and his words once again hummed in her mind. That wasn’t the reason I hit him. But why else would he have attacked? The Briton had said nothing else of import. Done nothing else, save give her a lustful glance.

  Possibilities shimmered, outrageous half-formed thoughts, and then the coldly obvious answer slammed through her brain, freezing all other fleeting suppositions.

  He’d lied to her. Why hadn’t she instantly reached that conclusion? It was obvious. The Briton had insulted him and the Gaul had retaliated and the only thing she couldn’t understand was why he hadn’t simply admitted it.

  An older woman came up to them and shot her a glance she couldn’t fathom. Why should a stranger look at her with sympathy? She straightened her already rigid spine and smothered the scowl that threatened to surface. It was easy to pretend she didn’t mind being the Gaul’s captive during the endless ride as she devised ways of ensnaring his trust. In reality she discovered it clawed her guts to think anyone should imagine she truly inhabited such lowly status.

  “This way,” the woman said in accented Latin, and led them in the direction opposite the latrines, along a stone-floored passage. She paused and opened a plain timber door. “The water will be ready shortly.”

  * * *

  Bren dismissed her with a curt nod and waited until Morwyn entered the room. She glanced around, a disapproving frown on her face, as if she didn’t think much of the plain Roman bed that consisted of a wool-stuffed mattress laid on a support built up from the floor. He’d deliberately ridden past the mansio situated in the last town, the inn and administration station that provided for official travelers. With his permit he was entitled to rest there but preferred the Romanized inns run by Britons.

  Usually.

  Although he doubted Morwyn would have been impressed by the more luxurious surroundings of accommodation constructed by the Emperor’s command.

  He kicked the door shut and opened his pack that had been left on the bed. Her embroidered bag lay on top of his spare clothing. He’d briefly inspected its contents back in the forest and been intrigued by the vast array of ingredients, many of which he didn’t recognize. For a trader, she appeared to possess an impressive knowledge of the healing arts.

  She leaned against the end of the bed, her arms folded. Although she’d not uttered one word of complaint throughout their long journey, he knew she was exhausted by the tautness of her body and the shadows beneath her eyes. A flicker of guilt tugged deep in his chest at the way he’d not allowed her to clean up earlier. He smothered it. Now that they had stopped for the night she could bathe, tend her injuries and rest.

  For a moment visions of them sharing the bed invaded his mind. Tangled sheets, tangled limbs. He continued to hold her accusing gaze, not allowing his thoughts to heat his expression because if she wanted to act on the pull between them, she could come to him.

  But he knew her pride was such she would never admit to such an attraction. Tonight was going to kill him.

  He dropped her bag on the bed, out of her reach. Frustrated desire may kill him, but he had no intention of allowing this woman free reign to achieve the same end.

  She let out an impatient breath, as if she’d been waiting for him to make some remark and had finally given up. “I need to wash.”

  He grunted in assent. Her deepening frown told him she didn’t appreciate his response.

  “Is there a nearby river?” Her tone was haughty. As if she was used to giving orders, to having her needs accommodated. A trader? In truth?

  “Yes.” Of course there was a river nearby. Romans never built anything if they could help it without close proximity to running water, to service their admittedly impressive sanitation and heating requirements.

  She bared her teeth in a poor approximation of a smile. “Then will you allow me to visit this river to tend to my needs?” Clearly the request caused her great pain.

  Only then did he realize he’d been staring at her, fascinated by the way her dark eyes glittered in the glow from the pottery lamps, at the way her black hair tangled about her face.

  His gut tightened at the livid bruises that mottled the left side of her face, marring her otherwise clear, fresh complexion. At least, what he could m
ake out of it beneath the grime and dried blood.

  Fucking Trogus. Bren would find a way to dispose of that piece of shit before the time came for him to leave the Roman garrison and join his disposed king. The man had irritated him from the moment he’d arrived from the East, with his complaints about the remoteness of the province, the unreliable weather and the barbarous inhabitants.

  She was still waiting for his answer. With more difficulty than was acceptable he tore his gaze from her. “No.”

  “No?” Her voice was sharp. She’d abandoned all pretense of humility and he preferred that. It was honest. She’d drive her dagger through his heart if he gave her the slightest chance and he’d be wise not to forget that.

  Morwyn was no fragile girl who needed his undivided protection. She was a strong Celtic woman. But he couldn’t dislodge the uncomfortable certainty she still needed his protection.

  “No?” she said again, limping around the end of the bed and coming to stand directly by his side. He gritted his teeth and refused to give her the satisfaction of looking at her. Although it took a vast amount of willpower to continue checking the contents of his pack and not give in to the urge to glance at her again. To touch her again.

  “Do you intend for me to stay in this disgusting state all night?” She all but spat the words at him. “Does the filth of battle heat your blood? Does my degradation inflame you?”

  Finally he abandoned his pack. Not that he could recall what he’d been searching for anyway.

  “Your degradation repels me.” Let her make what she wished of that statement. When she stiffened in clear affront and heat blushed her cheeks, he was under no illusion exactly how she’d taken his words.

  It didn’t matter. It made no difference that she so misjudged him. It wouldn’t change his mind about taking her with him.

  There was a hard thump on the door before it slammed open to admit two boys hauling a large wooden tub. Morwyn shot them a withering look and he thought she was about to reprimand them for their unbidden entrance. But instead she pressed her lips together and surreptitiously leaned against the bed once again, as if she were perilously close to collapsing.