The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  The relaxing of his features might have been a fantasy, so instantly did the usual harsh, uncompromising visage return.

  “We arrive in Camulodunon later this day.” And then he dug his spurs in.

  Morwyn stared straight ahead, unseeing, blood heating her cheeks. He hadn’t noticed her disappointment. Of that she was convinced.

  But why was she disappointed? Her objective had always been to reach Camulodunon and find Carys. She wanted to see Carys again. Wanted to leave the Gaul. To show him she was no slave to be hauled around the country at his slightest whim.

  Except she hadn’t expected the opportunity to leave him would be quite so soon.

  But what difference would another day make? She’d achieved her goal of multiple orgasms with the enemy. The Morrigan would surely be screeching at her sacred crossroad, cursing Morwyn for her blasphemy. She didn’t need any more time with the Gaul.

  And yet the sordid truth echoed in her mind. She wanted to have him again.

  * * *

  The sun was directly overhead when they finally reached Camulodunon. It was clearly a popular destination for merchants and traders, with travelers on foot and horseback both entering and leaving the shockingly large settlement. An arch proclaimed entrance to the Roman town but from this distance Morwyn couldn’t see the point of it. After all, there were no ramparts protecting the inhabitants from attack necessitating such purpose-built entry.

  As they approached the massive two portal arches, she realized it had obviously been constructed to commemorate the Roman conquest, and the Gaul slowed to a sedate walk.

  Despite not wanting to be affected by anything that declared victory so blatantly, she couldn’t help the thread of awe that snaked through her. It was craftsmanship such as she’d never seen before. Certainly there was nothing to compare in Cymru, where the Romans had ravished her land in order to construct their hated fortifications.

  “Impressed?” The Gaul’s breath brushed against her ear. He didn’t sound either impressed or repelled. To her disbelief arousal shivered through her at the sound of his voice. It was the first time he’d spoken since they’d left this morn.

  But then, she hadn’t attempted to engage him in conversation. She’d been too distracted by her own tangled thoughts to risk talking. In case she said something that inadvertently gave away how much she still wanted him.

  She concentrated on the freestanding arch before them. It was flanked by narrow foot passages, and the whole was set between projecting quadrant-shaped guard chambers. They, at least, were familiar. As were the foreign brick-and-mortar buildings beyond it.

  A fortification. And yet, somehow, quite different from those she’d seen in Cymru.

  Impressed? Certainly, if she had to be brutally honest, the architecture itself was impressive. But that was entirely different.

  “By coarse Roman arrogance?” She sniffed and frowned as she caught sight of an extensive Latin inscription carved onto the stone arch. Only the last few words penetrated her outraged mind.

  “. . . brought the barbarian peoples across the Ocean under the authority of the Roman people.”

  The Romans had the nerve to call them barbarians?

  Perhaps, in the past, she’d been guilty of considering the Britons as borderline barbarians. But compared to their common enemy, such distinctions were nothing. While they remained under the yoke of Rome, she was prepared to consider Britain an extension of Cymru.

  And the only barbarians in the land were those who willingly served the depraved Roman Emperor.

  Such as the Gaul, whose thighs cradled hers and whose arms grazed her waist. The man who had rescued her from his despicable countrymen in the forest, who took her insults without physical retaliation. The man who both fascinated and infuriated her in ways she’d never before imagined.

  Because she had never before been a captive of the enemy. Or been victim to such unquenchable lust whenever she so much as thought of a man.

  She loathed all Romans on principle and their spineless mercenaries by extension. Yet the longer she remained in this Gaul’s company, the harder it was to remember all the reasons why she couldn’t allow her defenses to crumble.

  Irritated, she deliberately looked over her shoulder at the receding triumphal arch. That was the reason. If she forgot, for even one moment, who he was, she risked losing her identity and pride. As Britain had lost hers.

  “Is this a fortification or settlement?” She shot the Gaul a dark glance, blaming him entirely for her ignorance. The buildings were regimented, nothing like the sprawling hill forts she was used to, but something was oddly amiss.

  He didn’t return her accusatory glare. “They didn’t need a military base here. They needed a colonia.” For a moment she imagined she saw contempt gleam in his mesmeric green eyes, but surely that was only a projection of her own affront?

  “A colonia?” She’d heard Camulodunon had been secured by the Romans and turned into a prosperous town, but her notion of what exactly comprised a Roman town was hazy. Somehow she’d imagined a larger version of the settlements that sprung up around the fortifications in Cymru.

  But this town wasn’t a ramshackle combination of tents and huts and timber. It had been built with purpose in the famed Roman design.

  He dismounted and helped her to the ground. His hand lingered longer than necessary at her waist before he released her. “The barracks were converted into houses for veterans. They call this their capital city of Britannia.”

  Morwyn narrowed her eyes as she surveyed the bustling market with its noisy livestock, gaudy trinkets and strange exotic imports. Britons and Romans mingled freely, and the scents of animals, sweat and indecipherable spices invaded her senses.

  Camulodunon. Ancient tribal settlement of the disposed Caratacus who now defied the might of the Eagle in the far west, among the mountains and forests of her beloved Cymru.

  She followed him without comment as they skirted the market and piles of steaming dung and headed down a side road. No dusty trails for the Romans. Even in their towns they couldn’t abandon their love of road-building.

  They came to an inn, and as the Gaul negotiated room and horse hire, Morwyn glanced at the other buildings. They appeared to sell everything from food to sex.

  Wherever Carys was, it wasn’t here. Her Roman would have installed her in far statelier surroundings, as befit her status. But with such a large town to search, where was she to begin?

  “The innkeeper will show you to our room.” The Gaul was staring at her and she blinked back her focus, hoping he hadn’t guessed the direction of her thoughts. “You can eat in there, away from prying eyes.”

  She didn’t care about prying eyes. Although, curse the gods, did her insides have to tighten with anticipation at the thought of being alone with the Gaul again so soon?

  “Very well.” Why deny she was hungry, and not just for food? But she certainly wasn’t going to let him know that, not yet. Not until they shut the door on the rest of the world.

  After all, there was plenty of time to find Carys. Afterward.

  She stepped toward the innkeeper. The Gaul didn’t move.

  “I’ll meet you back here later.”

  She froze and turned to look at him. “You’re not coming with me?”

  “I’ve business to conduct.” His gaze scalded her. A wordless promise of what that night would bring.

  Except she wouldn’t be there that night.

  Her heart thudded against her ribs, an oddly slow, echoing beat, as if it were disconnected from the rest of her body. She knew she had to tear her eyes from him, knew she had to make a careless response. Knew she had to alleviate any lingering suspicion he might harbor that she would escape as soon as he turned his back.

  But she couldn’t. Because a despicable, treacherous slither of her soul didn’t want to escape. Not yet. She wanted another night with him. Just one more night. That was all. And then she could walk out of his life without a backward glance, without a
second’s hesitation.

  Without a breath of regret.

  “Can’t it wait until the morn?” Curse her tongue, had she truly said that aloud? In an effort to appear nonchalant she shrugged and pretended not to notice the dagger-sharp interest that flared in his eyes. “You need to eat too, after all.”

  “I’ll return as soon as I can.” He paused, as if debating whether to continue. “We leave for Cymru at daybreak.”

  Subconsciously she acknowledged his use of the term Cymru rather than the Roman Cambria. But mainly she acknowledged that if she didn’t take this chance to escape, she wouldn’t receive a second. His military business was obviously fleeting, and would be completed this day.

  She had no choice. It was now. Or never.

  “Good.” Her smile felt brittle, unconvincing, and so she looked away from him toward the inn. “This heathen town sickens me.”

  Despite her best intentions she glanced back at him and caught the familiar tug of his lips, as if he fought against a smile. Why would he smile at her deliberate insult?

  He closed the distance between them and the breath tightened in her chest, constricting and exhilarating. Gods, it was as well they would spend no more time together if every time he drew near, her body betrayed her so blatantly.

  “Here.” His voice was husky and for one insane moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Here, in public. And she wanted him to because then, in her mind, she could pretend it was a farewell.

  Instead he pulled her medicine bag from his pack and handed it to her. For a moment she stated at it, uncomprehending. He’d taken it from her because he didn’t trust her not to poison him. Did this gesture mean that now he did trust her?

  He let out an impatient breath as if her non-reaction irritated. “You need this, Morwyn. For your womanly requirements.”

  She dragged her gaze from the bag to stare into his face. He was frowning and looked harsh, uncompromising, as if the slightest wrong word from her would cause him to cut her throat.

  Slowly she held out her hand and he dropped the embroidered loop over her palm. He considered her his captive. Had tethered her like a slave. And yet he was returning fundamental power to her, by giving her the means to control her own body and destiny.

  Slaves had no such rights. And she knew, from observation and rumor, that Roman men had long ago stripped their women of all primal feminine knowledge—if, indeed, they had ever possessed it.

  Her Gaul worked for the enemy. But he hadn’t embraced all of their twisted culture. An uncomfortable obstruction closed her throat, as if ancient grief choked her and she couldn’t think why his gesture touched her so profoundly.

  After all, she didn’t need the contents of her bag. Carys could give her what she required in order to cleanse her womb of her Gaul’s seed.

  “Thank you.” Her voice was as husky as his. His green eyes entranced, as they had the first time she’d seen him. Somehow she knew that, no matter how many summers or winters she saw, she would never forget the hypnotic shade of his eyes.

  His stone-carved expression softened by an almost infinitesimal degree. So slight she wondered if anyone else could even notice.

  “This doesn’t mean I trust you not to attempt to poison my food.” His voice was low, for her ears only, and again the corner of his mouth quirked as if attempting to smile.

  She forced her lips to curve. It was far harder than it should have been. “Oh, there’s no fear of that, Gaul. We’re still days from Cymru. I’ve no desire to be stranded so far from home.”

  This time, for one brief breath-stealing moment, he flashed her a true smile, and again she was staggered by how much younger, how much less battle weary, he looked.

  She doubted he was any older than her. And somehow, inexplicably, that realization caused the dull knot in the center of her chest to tighten.

  “Then I’m safe for another few days.” He turned to leave, then suddenly faced her once again and cradled her jaw in a fleeting, tender gesture before swinging on his heel.

  A ragged gasp tore from her lips and she hugged her waist as she watched her Gaul disappear around the corner.

  The thought lingered, probed deep into her mind and worried around the edges of her consciousness.

  Her Gaul.

  A shiver trickled along her spine and caused the hairs on her arms to rise in disbelief. Since when had she started to think of him as her Gaul?

  Chapter 13

  Morwyn opened the door of the bedroom and glanced along the deserted hallway. She’d half wondered whether the innkeeper had been instructed to lock her up, but obviously not. Perhaps, then, he’d been ordered not to allow her to leave the inn on her own?

  She would soon find out.

  Heart thudding, although she wasn’t sure whether through anticipation at the prospect of escape or regret at betraying the Gaul’s trust, she slung her medicine bag over one shoulder and pack over the other and left the inn without being accosted.

  And how absurd to feel she was betraying his trust. He had abducted her. He had no right to keep her against her will, and she had every right to walk out on him at the first opportunity.

  Her fingers strayed to her bag. Somehow, the simple fact he’d given it back to her . . . changed things. She couldn’t quite work out why, just that she no longer felt entirely justified at deserting him.

  She smothered a groan at her jumbled thoughts and glanced over her shoulder. I’m not deserting him. The sooner she found Carys and they formulated plans to return to Cymru and join the rebellion, the sooner this uncomfortable sensation of loss would pass.

  But she couldn’t entirely ignore the realization that she would have felt so much better if the Gaul had told the innkeeper to keep her a prisoner. If, instead of simply walking out of the inn, she’d needed to use subterfuge and cunning.

  With a deep breath she straightened her shoulders, tilted her jaw and marched toward the market. She’d take a quick look around the town first, take stock of the populace, before deciding whom to approach with her inquiry.

  Carys was a distinctive-looking woman. Morwyn didn’t have any doubt she’d soon find someone who could direct her to her friend’s whereabouts.

  * * *

  Morwyn stared up at the monstrous temple that dominated this entire sector of the town. It sat on a podium, twenty sweeping steps above where she stood, a heathen display of columns and arches and vulgar statuary.

  She expelled a shaky breath and wiped her hand across her sweaty brow. She’d been wandering around the town for too long already, and was no closer to deciding whom she could approach for information.

  Her idea of asking a Celtic elder had come to nothing, since she hadn’t found any. Were they all in hiding from the conquerors? Or had they been slaughtered?

  A group of Roman men, dressed in long white togas, strolled past. Would they know of Carys? Her lover had been a centurion, but rumor insisted he’d been promoted to the senatorial ranks.

  She didn’t fully understand the complexities of the Roman military, but did know her friend’s lover possessed power. It was very likely these men would know his name. But even if she could bring herself to speak to them, she was under no illusion as to how she’d be treated.

  Gods. Why had she imagined it would be a simple task to track Carys down? In the forest she’d thought Camulodunon would be just a slightly larger version of the settlements she was used to. A place where, with her connections, anyone could be found. But she was no longer in Cymru where her status ensured her questions would be answered with respect.

  And this was getting her nowhere. She’d go back to the second, far larger, marketplace she’d found, the one next to this offensive temple, and make discreet inquiries of the stallholders. She hadn’t spoken to any of them before because they were all dressed as Romans, but now that she thought about it, how likely was it that they were?

  Perhaps they merely dressed that way, in order not to draw attention to themselves. And she supposed she co
uld understand that. Since leaving the tavern she’d been subject to countless sideway glances. Even a few lecherous gropes from lewd-mouthed bastards that she’d swiftly taken care of.

  A pity she didn’t still have her dagger. What would her Gaul do with her dagger now she had left him? Sell it? Or would he keep it as a memento of their fleeting night together?

  “Mistress Morwyn?”

  The breathy whisper penetrated her mind, the words so utterly unexpected that for a moment she remained frozen to the spot. Who would address her in such a manner so far from home?

  “Is—is that you, mistress?” Now the voice quavered, as if afraid it had made a fatal error.

  Slowly she turned. A dark-haired Celtic girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen summers, gazed at her with a tentative smile. A smile that inexplicably wavered, only to be replaced by clear horror.

  Morwyn ignored the urge to step back, because despite the girl’s strange behavior there was something vaguely familiar about her. “Yes, I’m Morwyn.” She smiled in an attempt to alleviate the girl’s distress. “You know me?”

  The girl swallowed and visibly attempted to collect her scattered senses. “Yes, mistress. From Cymru. You’re the chosen acolyte of the Morrigan herself.”

  Morwyn’s smile began to ache. “Yes.” But no longer. “What’s your name? What are you doing here?” And more important, did she know of Carys’ whereabouts?

  “I’m Branwen.” She blinked a couple of times, as if trying to refocus. Gods, what was the matter with the girl? “I live here with my grandfather and the Lady Carys.”

  “Carys?” Morwyn gripped Branwen’s shoulders, excitement pumping through her blood. “You must take me to her instantly, Branwen. Can you do that?”

  Branwen gave her an odd look, as if she couldn’t understand her urgency. “But of course, mistress. That’s why I spoke to you. Carys is just back there—in the forum.”