The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  How dare he deny me satisfaction?

  * * *

  Morwyn turned her back on him in bed, her body rigid with affront at his continued distance. He hadn’t even bothered procuring her a bath. Instead they had washed in a bucket of lukewarm water and even if he had allowed her to go first, she still felt ill-cleansed.

  As he extinguished the last lamp and the room plunged into darkness she allowed her muscles to slowly relax. But even that was an effort because every nerve stretched in awareness at his close proximity. The heat emanating from his body.

  The chill of the space between them.

  No shackle imprisoned her ankle.

  She clenched her hands. Forced her breath between her teeth. This journey was testing her sanity to its outer limits. While on Mon, she’d been approached on several occasions by men wanting more than friendship. But, despite her body’s need, she’d never been tempted to take them up on their offers.

  Her need to scorn the Morrigan had been greater.

  But now, lying in bed in the dark, all she could think of was the Gaul. How he would feel. How he would taste. And the most despicable thing of all was she knew, deep inside, that wanting him had nothing to do with wanting to abuse her goddess’ divine gifts.

  * * *

  She was back in the Morrigan’s sacred grove on the Isle of Mon. The grass was sharp green, the sky vivid blue, every color so vibrant her eyes ached. Somewhere in the back of her mind, beyond the reach of consciousness, she knew this wasn’t real. Knew it was just another dream. But when Gawain came to her and took her hands, relief, woven through with remorse, gripped her heart.

  “I’ll find the Briton king, Morwyn. And fight for our freedom the way we should have fought, before Aeron created his cursed spiral. Before he concealed us from the Romans.” The last words vibrated with fury. With loathing at how the Druids had been prevented from protecting their people.

  No dream. This was a memory. The last time she’d seen Gawain alive before he’d left the Isle to seek out Caratacus.

  “Let me come with you.” The words spilled from her lips even though she knew his answer, as if this memory demanded to be replayed over and over, an endless loop, despite her knowledge of how it would all end.

  His fingers tightened around hers. She could feel their strength as though he truly stood before her and held her hands, but still ethereal wisps of precognition fluttered in her mind. Distorting the moment. Confusing her ability to distinguish between reality and reminiscence.

  “No.” He released her and stood looking down at her, as if committing her to memory. “I need to go alone.” He hesitated for a moment clearly debating his next words. “I need to get away from you.”

  She watched him turn and walk away, proud and alone, and her heart ached. No matter how she longed to leave this Isle and join the rebels, she couldn’t go with Gawain. He deserved, at least, the right to leave on his own terms.

  The sky darkened; the air chilled. Shivers raced over her arms as shadows lengthened and the trees thickened, becoming dense and impenetrable. Unformed terror gripped her, twisted her guts, and sent her stumbling backward.

  Run. Desperately she tried to turn, to flee, but her limbs were paralyzed, rooting her to the spot. She could do nothing but watch as the clouds rolled across the threatening sky, as thunder rumbled ominously in the distance and as a formidable mountain rose from the blackened trees.

  Her heart hammered against her ribs, panicked and painful. A terrible foreboding snaked through her blood, formless yet tangible. Unknown yet terrifyingly familiar. As if she had witnessed what was to occur countless times in the past, and would continue to witness forever into eternity.

  Water splashed her feet and she leaped back, breaking the paralysis, and looked down. A raging river slashed across the land, dividing her from the mountain; a river of murderous intent, tainted with scarlet.

  Lungs contracted, throat closed. She jerked her gaze up and stared at the massive stone ramparts on the far mountain. Had she been here before? Was this real, or a dream? A memory her waking self had forgotten?

  Or a vision of what was to come?

  War cries slithered into her consciousness and her perspective instantly altered. Now she was on the mountain, behind the ramparts, looking down as the hated enemy forded the deadly river. Arrows arched across the sky, an endless torrent, but it meant nothing. Would get them nowhere. She didn’t know how or why the certainty gripped her in a remorseless vise. Only that it did. Only that she needed to escape, that she needed to find someone. That she needed to warn the others.

  She pushed her way through faceless warriors as panic mounted and sweat drenched her clammy skin. Up ahead a familiar figure came into view and relief swamped her, momentarily deadening her limbs and causing her mind to spin.

  “Gawain.”

  He didn’t hear her and continued issuing orders to another. She stumbled over fallen bodies—where had all the dead come from?—and pushed others from her path. She had to reach Gawain. Had to warn him.

  But no matter how fast she ran, she could get no closer to him. Always he was beyond her grasp, beyond her vocal range. She watched him briefly embrace another man before turning his back, a show of utmost trust, and fathomless fear coiled around her throat.

  The faceless warrior drew his dagger and it glinted like sunlight caught in a waterfall, before he raised his arm and plunged the deadly blade into Gawain’s back.

  Chapter 10

  Strong arms enfolded her, and held her securely against an unyielding expanse of masculine chest. Her heart thundered against her ribs, crushed her lungs, caused air to gasp from parted lips.

  A dream. Just a dream. Her panicked mind repeated the mantra as Gawain fell to his knees, as his blood pooled on the ground, as his assailant vanished into the roaring throng of disoriented warriors.

  And yet, as always, conviction seared her soul that this was more than a figment of her imagination. More than a random, repetitive dream. Gawain was dead, murdered by one he trusted. Murdered by one of their own, even as the enemy advanced.

  A dry sob scraped her throat, and instinctively she clutched at the muscled arm that encircled her waist. “Gawain.” The whisper rasped into the silence of the retreating nightmare, the darkness of the endless night. But the solid body shielding her back didn’t dissolve into the fevered recesses of her mind.

  Heated breath fanned across her nape, causing shivers to race over her vulnerable flesh.

  “You’re safe.” The low voice rumbled against her ear, deep and decadent. “I’ve got you, Morwyn.”

  The lingering terror faded as awareness trickled through her brain. The Gaul held her in an intimate embrace, his hard body meshed to hers, his erection pressed securely against the small of her back.

  Her breath stumbled, heart tripped and then thudded with painful intensity. Without conscious thought her fingers fanned across his forearm, and tremors of delight rippled through her blood at the abrasive texture of his skin and hair against her palm.

  Firm lips drifted across the hollow where neck curved into shoulder. “You’re safe,” he repeated, voice husky. His arm tightened almost imperceptibly around her. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Skin tingled beneath his questing lips. But he explored no further, for her gown obstructed his progress and he made no move to rip it from her body, to allow him unfettered access.

  But still he held her. Hard against soft. Coils of desire knotted low in her belly, and sent glowing tendrils spiking through her trembling sheath. Even through his tunic and her gown his cock burned her flesh, tantalizing her with promises of how thoroughly he could satisfy the clawing frustration shredding her reason.

  Under pretext of stretching, she stealthily molded her bottom more firmly against his thigh, trapping his cock more securely, and threaded her fingers through his. Hot breath gusted across her shoulder, teeth grazed her sensitized flesh, but still he didn’t act on the lust pounding between them.

 
His face was still buried against her shoulder and she rolled her head back, and nestled her cheek against his cropped hair. It prickled, extraordinary, erotic, like nothing she had ever experienced before, and another involuntary shudder ripped through her body.

  Fingers entwined, she dragged his hand up from her waist. When she paused he continued the momentum and cradled her breast, scorching her flesh as if no fabric separated their contact.

  With a harsh gasp her hand convulsed around his. She needed more than a gentle touch, more than a fleeting caress. Liquid fire scalded her veins and pooled between her thighs. Heart thundered in her chest and echoed in her ears and she rolled over, facing him.

  The room was pitch-black and she could see nothing. He held her in one arm, firm and unyielding, his hot breath fanned her face, and the hard length of his hair-roughened legs trapped hers.

  Words tumbled in her mind, incoherent, bereft of pride. She clamped her lips together, and bit down on her tongue. She wanted him. Needed him. But gods, she wouldn’t beg him.

  Instead she speared her fingers through his hair and darts of shocked pleasure radiated from her fingertips and along her arm, and splintered across her shoulder. There was no length to grasp, and, far from disappointing, it was exotic. Intoxicating. As arousing as the uncompromisingly male scent of woods and foreign soap and faintest hint of horse that emanated from his heated flesh.

  She dug her nails into his scalp, scraped them along his skull and across the nape of his neck. He arched into her, cock rigid and demanding against her belly, and with a rough movement pulled her gown up to her waist.

  The bedcovers lay twisted around her feet and shivers burned her exposed thighs and naked bottom. She wanted to strip him, have him rip her gown from her, but she couldn’t wait, couldn’t articulate her demands. Instead she gripped his tunic and jerked it up. She needed him now and there was no need for words, no need for endless foreplay. No need to analyze how or why she felt this way, because it was night and it was right and if she didn’t come, she would die.

  Roughened fingers traced over the curve of her hip and she flung her leg over his thigh to allow him unrestricted access. He followed her soundless cue, his hand delving between her legs, discovering her tender lips.

  She closed her eyes, and curled her hand around his scorching shaft. He groaned, or perhaps it was her, because never had she felt anything that promised so much.

  “You’re wet.” His voice rasped from the dark, disembodied. Erotic. She squirmed against his probing fingers, the pressure of his thumb against her swollen clit verging on the unbearable.

  Somehow she found her voice. “And you’re hard.” She accompanied her words by rolling her palm over his shaft, massaging his head, and thrills chased from her womb to her nipples at the moisture gathered there already.

  His mouth claimed hers, unerring despite the lack of light. Internal shudders ricocheted at the ferocity, the plunder, the sheer bestial dominance as his tongue invaded, demanding her utter surrender beneath his onslaught.

  Thudding pressure gained momentum low in her belly, echoing through her sensitized pussy. He was hot, unrelenting, his mouth devouring, and she returned every thrust of tongue, every graze of teeth.

  And still it wasn’t enough.

  A growl purred in the back of her throat and she slung her leg more securely over his thigh. He dragged his hand from her wet core and gripped her rounded buttock. She wound her free arm around his back, forcing him up from the mattress where he lay on his side.

  Her teeth sank into his bottom lip and he stilled. She bent her injured leg, ignoring the discomfort, and maneuvered until he raised his body sufficiently for her to slide her leg beneath him.

  She smiled against his trapped lip and then flicked her tongue over the abused flesh. Finally she relinquished her hold on his erection and wrapped both arms around him, gripping his firm arse, reveling in the sensation of having him between her spread thighs.

  His cock nudged her wet entrance and sparks of fire pulsed through her. Her palms molded his tight buttocks and explored his rigid muscles. Uninhibited shivers of delight raced through her as he kneed her thighs farther apart and she dug her nails into his flesh, savage and wild, needing him to crush her, to hold her, to claim her.

  Would she need to beg? Can I beg? Her lips parted, words hovered, and then he surged into her. Hot, hard and so shockingly large the air vaporized from her lungs in a startled gasp as long-unused muscles stretched to accommodate.

  A strangled groan tore from his throat and echoed through the darkness. Blindly she stared up at him, wanting to see his eyes, watch his face, but all she could see was a black silhouette against the pitch of night.

  For an endless moment he didn’t move. Jagged breath hissed through her teeth as she forced her tense muscles to relax. He filled her so utterly, as if any sudden movement might shatter her irretrievably. But gods, it felt so good. So right. To once again feel the hardness of a man embrace her. To relish the sensation of his cock inside her, groin to groin, her thighs cradling his, her fingers clawing the taut flesh of his lower back.

  He braced his weight on his elbows and pushed himself up. His hands entrapped her face, fingers splayed through her tangled hair, and the sensation of possessiveness was so erotic shivers chased over her skull and skittered along her sensitized nape.

  Only the sound of erratic breath and frenzied heartbeat filled the air. He could be anyone, anyone she chose, but it had been moons since she’d wanted Gawain, and her fantasies involving Aeron had long since withered.

  This was the Gaul who held her. The Gaul whose hand roughly molded the curves of her body before gripping her bottom. The Gaul whose rasping breath scorched her lips as he angled her to his complete satisfaction.

  His throbbing erection dragged with torturous delight across her clit, back and forth. Slowly. Deliberately. A mindless scream of pent-up passion boiled through her mind and sizzled through her blood. Back and forth. She clenched her internal muscles, squeezed him tight, and gasped in satisfaction at the primal growl that rumbled through his body.

  Their clothes impeded her. She wanted him naked, to feel his flesh against hers, to have him suck her nipples, cradle her breasts, scrape his fingers across her belly and hips and thighs.

  But all she could do was claw at his cursed tunic. Gouge his back through the rough material. And wrap her legs around his waist and suck him deep inside where time and place and tribal pride vaporized into primitive need.

  Harsh pants of approaching climax filled the impenetrable black. He could be anyone. But he was the Gaul. And the knowledge inflamed, as much as his increased thrusts, as much as the way he grasped her hair in one hand and her arse in the other.

  As much as the friction pounding between her thighs, riding her quivering pussy, teasing her to unreachable heights.

  He rammed into her, pain and pleasure indeterminable, and the breath rushed from her lungs at the force of his possession. Teeth sank into the damp curve where throat met shoulder, mouth hot and wet, a knife-edge of unbearable sensation stabbing straight through the heart of her being. Liquid fire raced through her clit, speared her womb and splintered deep in her gut as his guttural roar seared the air.

  He pumped into her, hot and endless, and she could scarcely move beneath his violent onslaught. Heart thundered; blood scalded and sanity quavered on the fiery precipice. And still he fucked her, as if he would never stop, and gods, she didn’t want him to stop, didn’t want this midnight magic to ever end.

  Molten spirals coiled deep inside, tightening muscles, skimming across skin. She tried to hold the moment, to savor it, prolong it, but it spilled from her unbidden.

  Echoes of her hoarse scream vibrated in her ears but she didn’t care what he thought, didn’t care that he’d know how desperately she craved this joining. Didn’t care about the past or the future or the fact he was her enemy. Because everything was in this moment and in this moment they were one.

  Chapter 11 />
  He collapsed on her, face buried against her neck. His body was hard and heavy and immovable. Crushing her bones, smothering her lungs.

  Strength gushed from her limbs and her legs slid from his back, falling to the bed, feeling oddly light and disconnected as if they didn’t belong to her. Only by twisting her fingers into the fabric of his tunic did she prevent her arms from following. Because it felt too good, too cursed satisfying, to hold him close and feel every erratic pant of breath, every rapid thud of his heart.

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. His short hair tickled the side of her face, and his day-old beard scraped the tender skin of her shoulder. He felt unlike any man she had ever known before.

  There had been no tender words. No artful seduction. Just rough, unpolished sex.

  Languid tremors flickered through her sated channel, still filled by his impressive length. She still couldn’t move her head, as his fingers were embedded in her hair, tangled around his fingers, and the sensation verged on pain.

  Pleasurable pain. Another languid ripple teased her sensitized flesh. If only we were naked.

  But she was too exhausted, too wondrously sated to voice her request. Time enough to see his body later. When dawn broke, before they needed to rise for another torturous day in the saddle.

  He rose, severing their contact, and a mewl of protest escaped before she could prevent it. He cupped her face in an oddly tender gesture, fingers trailing the length of her cheek before he rolled onto his back, fingers tugging her hair as he disengaged.

  She panted into the heated black. Sweat slicked her skin and her gown was unbearable but she couldn’t find the strength to strip. The musky scent of sex wafted in the air and his hot seed trickled between her spread thighs.