“Not everything foreign is inherently inferior.”
Morwyn wiped a finger across the poultry and then licked the flavor with her tongue. Her frown didn’t waver. “It is when the foreigners concerned are Romans.”
Mostly, he agreed. But he’d lived the Roman way for too many years now not to have seen advantages to their systems. Their military system in particular. They hadn’t conquered the civilized world through luck alone, no matter how his people might wish that was so.
“Sometimes survival calls for compromise.” As he’d compromised for the last few years, inveigling himself with the enemy to learn their weaknesses and exploit their arrogant pride.
“No.” Morwyn’s tone was firm as she settled herself against the pillows on the bed, her plate piled surprisingly high considering her opinion of the feast. “I’d never go against my principles, simply to survive under the yoke of Rome.”
“And yet you have no compunction in eating their imported food.” He poured the wine and sat beside her, and shot her a sardonic glance as she ate the guinea fowl with apparent relish. Would she enjoy the Roman wine as much? He hadn’t thought to ask if she’d prefer the locally brewed ale.
She wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “Nothing else is available.” Then her brow creased as if she realized she’d just inadvertently agreed with him. “This is different. It’s not what I meant at all.”
“It’s still a compromise.” He shoveled in a mouthful of vegetables so she wouldn’t see the grin threatening to crack his lips. He didn’t know why he found contradicting her enjoyable. Gods, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d enjoyed a conversation to this degree.
Except he could. More than six years ago. For a moment the memories seared through his brain, recollections of laughter and love and careless words that could be uttered without first analyzing their possible intent.
And tonight, with Morwyn, he once again spoke without thought of how his words might be interpreted. With a woman who believed him her worst enemy, a woman who would betray him given the slightest opportunity.
“I don’t agree.” There was an edge in her voice, as if she didn’t appreciate having her remarks twisted. “In fact, what could be better than nourishing myself on the enemy’s food in order to—” She snapped her jaw together as if she belatedly recalled to whom she was speaking, before once again biting into the enemy’s food.
“Stab him in the back?” It was ironically amusing they both believed in that. Because that was exactly the plan he’d been following for the last three years.
She swallowed the guinea fowl and looked as if she were about to choke, but after a moment she composed herself. “Not literally.” She didn’t meet his eyes. This conversation might be stimulating but it also served as a reminder. He couldn’t trust her. No matter how he wished otherwise.
“What, then?”
An oddly vulnerable look flashed across her face, as if she were recalling painful memories. Of whom did she think? Her lover? Had he died at the hands of the enemy? Was that the reason Morwyn was so vocal in her condemnation?
If so, they had another bond in common. Another he could never share with her.
“I’d never betray my people.” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper, as if once again she forgot whom she was talking to. As if the words came from her soul, and weren’t uttered with the primary objective of insulting his honor. “Not for the enemy. And not for the gods.”
The gods? That, he hadn’t expected. Under what circumstances did she imagine their gods would want them to betray their people?
He might not think that much of the gods anymore. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d worshipped them or offered them sacrifice. But no matter how he despised them for ignoring his agonized entreaties so many years ago, deep in his heart he knew they’d never willingly submit to the Roman invaders.
Slowly she turned to look at him, her dark eyes unfocused as though she were no longer in this room with him, but reliving her past. Silently he offered her a goblet and she blinked, as if emerging from a trance, and took the wine without protest.
She gulped down the golden liquid as if it were water, despite the way her nose crinkled as though the taste didn’t best please her. But he wasn’t about to risk drinking the water provided by the innkeeper. Even now, he preferred to fill his waterskins from source, where it gushed unpolluted from the earth.
Silence stretched between them, yet it wasn’t a silence of animosity nor did it crackle with resentment or fear. If circumstances were different, he’d think it companionable.
Her head dropped against his shoulder and need blazed through his groin, igniting the embers, reawakening his lust. He looked down at her, expecting a sultry smile or at least eyes reflecting the extent of their mutual desire.
Only the top of her head was visible as she slumped against him, and he snatched her goblet before it tumbled from her slack fingers.
She’d fallen asleep. It had nothing to do with how much she trusted him, because he knew she didn’t trust him at all, and yet still an odd pain split through his chest at how vulnerable sleep rendered her.
Without shifting the arm upon which Morwyn rested, he piled their plates and goblets onto the timber chest. He was sweaty and filthy from their ride and now, while she slept, was the perfect moment to visit the bathhouse.
Stealthily he slid from her unconscious embrace and lowered her head to the pillows. She curled into a ball, hair spread around her like black flame, oblivious to how the cloth barely covered her enticing breasts or luscious buttocks.
It would be so easy to leave her as she was. But if she awoke, she’d take instant advantage to escape. And it wasn’t safe outside for a woman alone, no matter how skilled with a dagger she might be.
But even as the thought slithered through his mind, even as he made sure she’d be unable to leave him without his consent, the harsh truth bubbled like acid through his lies.
He didn’t want her to disappear in the night because her quick tongue and tempting body relieved the stark reality of his existence.
Chapter 8
From the depths of slumber, Morwyn stirred. Various points of her body throbbed and disjointed memories tumbled through her mind.
She was with the Gaul. She didn’t recall falling asleep and stealthily peered through her lashes but he wasn’t lying by her side. Surely it wasn’t morn already and he’d risen?
Before irritation could flood her at the possibility he’d slept by her side all night without touching her, she realized the light was all wrong. The lamps were still burning. The remains of their meal still cluttered the top of the chest.
Perhaps he’d merely gone to the bathhouse.
Heat flickered low in her womb and a smile tugged at her lips. Gaining his trust had been easier than she’d thought. If she wasn’t so desperate to see Carys, there would be nothing to stop her from escaping her captor while he luxuriated in his Roman masters’ bath.
But even though she had no intention of escaping, she most certainly needed her medicine bag. It had been many moons since she’d bothered with the contraceptive teas. Not since the Druids had fled Cymru and Carys had chosen her Roman lover above her people. There had been no need. From that night she’d no longer welcomed Gawain into her arms and there had been no other man since.
It would be easy enough to persuade the Gaul to procure her hot water. Even if he did now work for the enemy, he was still Celt-born. Would know how a woman needed to protect herself against unwanted pregnancy. But in case he’d been tainted by the foul Roman view of femininity, she’d tell him the infusions were for some other womanly complaint.
She smiled again, well satisfied by her plan, and ignoring the protests of her abused muscles stretched languorously, arms above her head, flexing cramped legs.
Unaccustomed weight dragged the ankle of her uninjured leg and she froze, momentarily stunned into stupidity, unable to comprehend the obvious reason for such constraint.
Finally she jerked upright and glared at the ugly shackle enclosing her ankle that attached to an equally ugly iron chain that trailed over the end of the bed.
He’s put me in chains.
An inarticulate hiss spilled from her lips, and her fingers clawed uselessly against her thighs. So much for imagining she’d gained his trust. The bastard had tethered her like an animal, as if she were his property, as if she were—
The door cracked open, as though whoever entered wanted to do so without waking her. She clamped her teeth together and glowered as the Gaul caught her eye, and he kicked the door shut behind him, obviously no longer concerned with stealth.
He approached, as if nothing were wrong. She wouldn’t lower herself to speak to him. Wouldn’t demean herself by engaging in a confrontation. She’d lie down, turn her back and show him just how little she cared that he’d put her in chains.
“I didn’t think you’d be awake yet.” He sat at the foot of the bed but the Roman scents and spices or whatever he’d used in the barbaric bathing ritual saturated the air, weaved into her senses and distorted her mind.
Her fingernails dug into her palms. She didn’t care that he no longer stank of horse or travel. It made no difference that his hair was damp, his jaw freshly shaved, or that he smelled like something that had walked out of her most erotic dreams.
He glanced at her imprisoned ankle. She resisted the urge to curl her toes because then he’d know his scrutiny bothered her. Enraged her. Gods, if he got any closer, she’d gouge out his eyes and force them down his bastard Gallic throat.
Unbelievably he reached out toward her enchained leg, and her resolve snapped.
“Don’t you dare touch me.” She jerked her legs across the bed, the shackle a loathsome weight around her. When he turned back to her, as if he was about to justify his act, she leaned forward so he wouldn’t be under any illusion as to how she felt. “How dare you chain me like a slave?”
His jaw tensed, as if he didn’t appreciate her accusation. “That wasn’t my intention.”
Injustice bubbled deep in her gut that he should treat her so basely. And although she tried to ignore it, she also knew her pride seethed at the knowledge she’d been unable to gain his trust, been unable to hoodwink him as easily as she’d so smugly imagined.
“How could you have intended anything else?” She kicked her leg, making the chain clank, a hideous sound that reinforced how helpless she was. If he kept her chained the entire time they were in Camulodunon, she’d never have a chance to escape.
“I intended to release you upon my return.” He sounded as though he was having second thoughts about following through, but it didn’t matter what he intended. He’d already shown her, more clearly than any lying words, what he thought of her.
“You had no right to tether me in the first place.” Her breath shortened and she gripped the cloth over her breasts before it slithered to her waist. She wanted to hate him, and she did. She wanted to despise him, and she most certainly did.
But she didn’t want to still desire him. Didn’t want this ravening lust thundering through her veins or pounding between her thighs. And yet she did still desire him and her body craved his as much as it ever had.
“Are you going to argue the matter all night?” No hint of apology or shame at his actions colored his words. If anything, he sounded as if he believed her in the wrong to question him.
As though he truly did consider her nothing more than his slave.
She straightened her rigid spine. “I wouldn’t demean myself to argue with such as you.”
“Then go to sleep.” His voice was harsh and he rose from the bed and strode to where he’d left his pack against the far wall. She caught sight of an iron key dangling from his fingers. “Enjoy your self-righteous indignation.”
Her fingers twitched with useless rage. Had he really intended to unlock her shackles when he returned, even if she’d still been asleep? But he’d seen she was awake and still he’d approached with the key.
Had she held her tongue, or at the very least not insulted him, she’d be free already.
But at least now she knew how little he truly thought of her. She wouldn’t underestimate him again. Wouldn’t assume a friendly word or disarming smile equaled trust.
Pride demanded she sling one final condemning insult in his face before grandly turning her back on him and feigning sleep. And if she did that, she risked him never removing the chains of degradation. The image of her hobbling behind him, in view of countless others, haunted her, and a shudder crawled through her soul.
What did he want from her? A groveling apology for speaking her mind? A promise to never cross him again? A pledge that she’d obey him in every word he deigned to utter?
Her throat closed, choking on the mere thought of subjugating herself so. Instead she clamped her teeth together, an effective barrier against an inadvertent remark escaping. Rigid with affront, she lay down on the bed, jerked the cover up to her chin and, after a moment’s hesitation, rolled onto her side facing him.
Never turn your back on the enemy.
* * *
In the fathomless black of the abyss, the entire world slipped sideways. Morwyn groaned, burrowed back into the endless silence, but still the world rocked, centering on her shoulder, insistent and relentless.
“Morwyn.” The voice penetrated the darkness bathing her mind and the blissful obscurity of slumber shredded like wisps of summer clouds in a warm breeze. “Wake up. We have to leave.”
The heat of his fingers sank into her blood as he clasped her naked shoulder and shook her in a very unlustful manner. She scowled into the pillow, her eyes still tightly screwed shut, and surreptitiously pressed her thighs together in an attempt to relieve the unwelcome throb of arousal.
And realized she was no longer chained like an enslaved chattel.
“If you don’t hurry, you won’t have time to eat.” He sounded impatient. Good. Why should she care if she made him late? She stretched as well as her painful muscles allowed and smothered another groan at the thought of a second full day in the saddle. By the time they reached Camulodunon, she’d scarcely be able to walk straight.
She rolled onto her back and squinted up at him. He was dressed in tunic and mail shirt and the grim expression on his face suggested he wasn’t impressed by her continued disobedience.
For a moment she contemplated remaining in bed. It would serve him right if he had to physically drag her from the room. Except her pride wouldn’t allow it. It was humiliating enough knowing the innkeeper’s wife pitied her for being in the Gaul’s power, without drawing any more attention to the fact.
And at least he’d removed the shackles. He didn’t intend she look like a slave in public, even if he treated her as one in private.
She sat up and discovered the cloth had disappeared during the night. And the Gaul, who had slept beside her, still hadn’t taken advantage. If she didn’t know better from the way his cock had dug into her when they were in the forest or how he’d looked at her and touched her while she bathed last night, she’d assume he preferred boys.
Scowling, and unable to help it, she climbed from the bed and snatched up her gown from the floor. Had he fucked another woman while in the bathhouse last night? It was the only reason she could imagine as to why he hadn’t taken her upon his return. Surely it had nothing to do with how she’d insulted him?
And even if it had, why hadn’t he slaked his lust at some point during the night? She was no longer covered in dried mud or crusted blood. He’d ensured there was no way she could have procured and hidden a dagger with which to gut him.
As she tied her bodice with savage precision, she hoped it had been a singularly unsatisfactory coupling. And judging by the dark glare on his face and the wave
s of tension that crackled in the air around them, it certainly hadn’t done much to relieve his frustration.
In frigid silence they walked to the latrines and attended to their needs. She hoped he didn’t bother opening his mouth to her again until they reached Camulodunon. Filthy, lying Gaul.
Despite her best intentions she shot him a surreptitious glance from beneath her lashes. Already his jaw was rough with an overnight beard, but the faintest scent still lingered from his sojourn in the bathhouse.
And he hadn’t lied to her. No matter how she tried to twist his words or misinterpret his actions. How much better she’d feel if he had. Then she could justify her wounded feelings instead of knowing she had nobody but herself to blame for her misguided illusion of having gained a foothold in securing his trust.
She picked up her pack and followed him outside. It was early, the sun still low in the pale blue sky, and the air was fresh as it gusted through her loose hair. With an impatient sigh she pulled open her pack, aware the Gaul watched her. As if even now, after he’d gone through every item before allowing her to touch her own things, he still didn’t trust her not to find a lethal weapon hidden among her possessions.
Her fingers curled around a leather thong and she pulled it free, unable to resist slinging him a scornful glance as she began to braid her tangled hair.
Apparently satisfied she had no intention of garroting him with her strip of leather, he turned to issue instructions to a young stable lad. Obviously he had no intention of allowing her to break her fast, although she was sure he had.
And if he imagined she was going to complain or beg him for food, he was delusional. She’d sooner chew on grass.
The innkeeper’s wife emerged, looking exhausted as if she’d been up half the night, and handed the Gaul a package. The aroma of fresh bread tantalized and, despite gritting her teeth, Morwyn’s mouth watered and her stomach growled.
She knotted the end of her braid and glared as the Gaul turned toward her. Let him stuff his face. She hoped he choked. And then she’d take the horse and make her own way to Camulodunon. How hard could it be?
The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection Page 36