The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  With a silent sigh Morwyn turned away from the sight of the beggar tearing open the bundle. There was nothing she could do. Beggars appeared to proliferate under the mighty Roman occupation.

  Once inside their room, the Gaul opened one of his pouches attached to his belt, turned her hand over and tipped a pile of coins onto her palm. “Your change from the sale of your bracelet.”

  Impressed, she stowed the coins in one of her own leather pouches. “You must have remarkable bartering skills.”

  “I don’t get cheated, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I can believe it.” She rose onto her toes and brushed a kiss across his lips. Why not enjoy his touch while she could? She wanted to make as many memories with him as possible. Memories she could remember for the rest of her life.

  “Tempting.” He pulled back, a grin illuminating his face. She sucked in a shocked breath and tried to rearrange her thought but couldn’t.

  He was definitely grinning. And it transfigured his face even more fundamentally than his elusive smiles. Mesmerized, she stared, uncaring of the passage of time or how hunger growled in the pit of her stomach.

  If only she could capture this look, seal it for eternity, so every smallest detail would remain fresh in her mind no matter how many seasons might pass.

  “More than tempting, if you continue to look at me with such adoration in your eyes.” His tone implied he was flirting in the most outrageous manner. Her Gaul, flirting, when only days ago she had wondered if he even knew the meaning of the word.

  “It’s tragically obvious your eyes require a thorough cleansing.” Except she had the worrying notion he had seen more in her look than she intended. She accompanied her remark with a haughty toss of her head, in hopes of distracting his attention.

  “Maybe.”

  Gods, and still he flirted. Fascinated, she could only continue to stare at him as if she had never seen him before. And it was almost as if she hadn’t. He seemed . . . different. She couldn’t place it. And then something odd about his appearance occurred to her.

  “You’re not wearing your chain mail or helmet.” He always wore his armor, unless they were readying for bed. It was as if their absence lifted a great weight from his shoulders, and not a physical weight but spiritual.

  He slid his arm around her waist and escorted her to the door. “And that’s why I have the strength to resist your charms in favor of eating first. Because I can spend the night with you.”

  Confused, she smiled up at him. Of course he was spending the night with her. Where else would he sleep?

  They entered a room that was dark, stuffy and filled with a tantalizing aroma of simmering food. A swarthy man took one look at her Gaul and lumbered over to them, jerking his head to indicate they should follow. He then proceeded to grasp the hair of two youths sitting at a corner table and toss them across the floor.

  “Here,” he said, wiping the spills on the table with the sleeve of his tunic.

  They sat opposite each other. “Wine?” The Gaul took a pottery amphora from a serving girl and picked up a goblet in readiness.

  “This eve you offer me wine?” She raised her eyebrows. “Every other time you gave me water.” Not that she minded. Had she wanted wine after that second night, she would have taken some whether he’d offered or not.

  “You’re welcome to have water. I thought you might prefer wine for a change since we’re unlikely to be watched.”

  “Watched?” Involuntarily she glanced around the crowded room, where Celts ate with relish and drank local ale and Roman wine with abandon. There didn’t appear to be any Romans. Unless they dressed as locals when off duty.

  “Rome,” the Gaul said, “doesn’t approve of women enjoying wine.”

  “Rome,” she said, “doesn’t approve of women.”

  He laughed, and didn’t try to smother it. She forgot about her wine and smiled back, entranced by his humor. “You’re not of that same mind, then?”

  “No.” He took a swallow of the dark golden liquid. “Taken in moderation, why not?”

  She leaned over the table, careful not to touch the sticky surface. “Is it an edict from their gods?”

  “I doubt it.” The faintest trace of derision threaded his words although the smile still hovered on his lips.

  There was so much she wanted to know about him. So much she knew she never would. But perhaps he wasn’t entrenched in Roman culture. Perhaps she might be able to tell him a little of herself, after all.

  “Do you worship their gods?”

  He hesitated for the merest moment, not as if he didn’t trust her with his answer but as if he’d never before been asked such a question.

  “No.”

  Her heart thudded against her ribs in sudden excitement. “Our gods?” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. Even if her faith had diminished, it would still be a bond between them. She didn’t even bother analyzing why she wanted to find a bond between them.

  “Do you believe in them, Morwyn?” His voice was low, his eyes mesmeric. Her breath caught in her throat and amplified her heartbeat.

  “I don’t know.” It was a breathy whisper, and in that moment she truly didn’t know. Only knew she wanted, more than anything, to believe in him.

  He smiled again, but this time it was tarnished with bitterness. “All gods are the same.” He finished his wine and poured another. “They speak through priests and oracles, or”—his gaze lanced through her—“Druids.” The word dripped with venom.

  It was as if he’d physically punched her in the face, and she only just prevented herself from reeling back in shock. His face was no longer twisted with revulsion, as it had when he’d spat Druids at her, but the image was burned into her brain.

  She licked her lips and longed for water to moisten her dry mouth. “You don’t care for Druids?” She might be battling a personal crisis, but whatever she did with her life, nothing would change the blood in her veins, her Druidic ancestry or the destiny she had once been expected to fulfill.

  “I feel nothing for them.” He tapped the stem of his goblet as if recalling distant events. “Except contempt.”

  Chapter 21

  Morwyn couldn’t trust herself to speak. She picked up her goblet and gulped down the strong wine. It scorched her throat, but not as much as the Gaul’s words scorched her heart.

  Of course, she hadn’t intended telling him she was a Druid. To admit such to one who worked for the enemy was tantamount to a death sentence. But the possibility of ever confiding in him, however remote that had been, crumbled to dust.

  But she was leaving soon. Why did it matter?

  The answer glinted out of reach, insubstantial. She didn’t know why it mattered so much. Only that it did.

  She sucked in a deep breath. He was staring at her, as if wondering why she was so silent. The notion flickered that perhaps she should confront his comment. After all, surely most of the populace still retained ample respect for the Druids? Or did they? She’d been sequestered on a sacred Isle. How could she truly know what the general population thought of Druids anymore?

  She couldn’t rouse his suspicions. Didn’t want to rouse his suspicions—was there a difference?

  Sweat slicked the back of her neck and the palms of her hands. She had the sick sensation there was a vast chasm of difference.

  “It’s fortunate”—her voice sounded cool, even slightly bored, although she hadn’t the first idea how she managed such a feat—“the paranoia of the Roman Emperor drove all Druids into hiding.”

  She tensed her muscles, waiting for his response. No doubt he would now condemn all Druids as cowards, for abandoning their people in their time of need. Why else would he feel such contempt?

  “Maybe not all.” He paused while a serving wench deposited two bowls of steaming stew onto the table. “While in Camulodunon I heard rumors that the wife of the tribune there was a runaway Druid.”

  Her stomach churned, and hunger melded into horror. How safe could
Carys be if such rumors were rife? What if her Gaul told his superiors of the suspicions surrounding the wife of one of their patrician officers? Did Maximus possess the power and connections necessary to protect their princess from persecution?

  The Gaul shot her a probing glance, as if her tangled thoughts showed clearly on her face. She struggled to maintain her composure but panic thudded through her blood and hammered against her skull.

  She had to alleviate his suspicion.

  “A Druid?” She injected as much skepticism in her tone as she could. And hoped he couldn’t hear the ragged beat of her heart that punched through each word. “That doesn’t seem likely.” She feigned interest in the stew, but her appetite had fled. “Surely a filthy Roman officer would have a Druid’s head on a spike before he’d welcome her into his bed.”

  “I imagine that would depend entirely on how desirable he found her.”

  Gods, she was going to vomit. Carys’ life could depend on whether she managed to steer the Gaul’s interest away from the likelihood of a Roman officer taking a Druid as his wife.

  She fixed him with what she hoped was an expression that conveyed both exasperation and boredom. “A Druid would rather kill herself than submit to the enemy.” The next words choked, but she forced them out. “Or she’d find a way to run and hide. Druids are good at hiding from danger.”

  He gave a grim laugh, as if he had personal experience of such things. “True. And no Roman patrician would want to damage his chances of rising through the ranks by taking such a wife.” He speared a sliver of meat with his knife and regarded it, in much the same way she could imagine he regarded a severed limb of an enemy in battle. Dispassionately. “Rumor or not, it provided for great gossip in the bathhouse. He should have known by taking a foreigner he was asking for such trouble.”

  Had the danger passed? Did he still think the tribune, who could be none other than Maximus, had married a Druid or merely an ordinary Celt?

  “I pity the woman.” Morwyn’s voice was lofty and she stirred her stew as if it fascinated her. “I only hope her love proves true. She must have given up everything in order to be with him.”

  “Perhaps she wasn’t given the choice.” His white, even teeth pulled the meat from the tip of the knife. “Perhaps, in truth, she’s nothing more than his official concubine.”

  Affront slashed through her on Carys’ behalf, at the mere suggestion her princess could be relegated to such a lowly status. But anything was better than adding even a hint of credence to the notion Maximus had taken a Druid as his wife.

  For a moment she tumbled back in time, to that night when Carys left to be with her Roman. Morwyn had begged her to reconsider. Had told her the enemy would crucify her if they discovered her true calling.

  Maximus had said they weren’t complete barbarians. That they could honor a foreign princess. And after having seen them together, Morwyn knew he did honor Carys, loved her truly and would do all in his power to protect her.

  But his Emperor hated Druids, feared the influence they had wielded for generations. Wanted to wipe even the memory of their existence from the face of the earth. How could one man, no matter how honorable, stand against the bigoted might of Rome?

  Let her Gaul think Carys was little more than a common slave. It could help save her skin.

  She had to divert his attention. But her mind thudded with only one thought, and before she could stop herself, the words spilled from her lips.

  “Why do you hate Druids so?” She knew it wasn’t personal. He hadn’t the first idea of what she was. Yet still his contempt ate into her. “What did they do to you?”

  For a moment she didn’t think he was going to answer. He continued to chew the meat, took a second mouthful, and only after taking a swing of wine did he finally look at her.

  “I don’t hate them.” His voice was level. “I despise them. There’s a difference, Morwyn. Hate requires too much energy.”

  Heat crawled over her skin, prickling her flesh, and an odd despair trickled through her stomach as if he had told her she was the one he despised.

  Would he, if he knew?

  “Then why do you despise them?”

  He regarded her in silence, as if contemplating whether or not she deserved an answer. The moment stretched, interminably. He wasn’t going to respond. Didn’t think her worthy of confiding even that much of his inner self to her.

  And then he spoke. “Do you believe they’re never wrong?”

  Instantly the image of Aeron flashed across her mind. Aeron; impossibly beautiful with his long golden hair, strange silver eyes and the aura of mystical power that had always surrounded him.

  Once, she’d loved him. Would have done anything for him. And when her eyes had opened, when she’d seen the evil polluting his blackened soul, she had been the means for his destruction.

  “No.” Her voice choked on the word. Once, she’d believed it inconceivable for Druids to be in the wrong. They were conduits for the gods. And the gods were supposed to be infallible. “They can be wrong.” So horrifically wrong. “They’re only mortal, despite their blood.”

  Was it her imagination or did her Gaul’s hard features soften by the minutest degree? As if he hadn’t been sure of her response and her words gave him some measure of relief?

  “Mortal.” He appeared to savor the word. “And vindictive.” His lips twisted into a parody of the smile she had come to cherish. “My contempt is personal, Morwyn. It doesn’t stem from the bloody quagmire of battle.” He paused as if reconsidering his words. “Although it certainly led me there.”

  “Personal?” Did she truly wish to know? Unease shivered through her mind, as if a premonition of disaster hovered on the near horizon. But how could she not want to know, when he was so close to confiding something of his past?

  “You’ll find it hard to believe, I know.” He shot her a strangely defensive glance, although she had the strangest conviction that only she could see that trace of vulnerability in his look. And it pierced through her heart, as tangible as the blade of a Druid’s sacrificial dagger. “But a trace of noble blood taints my veins.”

  Of course it did. She had always suspected he was more than a common auxiliary. Wild suppositions whipped through her brain. Perhaps the Romans held his noble mother and sisters captive, and in exchange for their safety her Gaul had to fight in the loathed legions?

  That wouldn’t make him a traitor. And of course there were insurmountable reasons as to why he’d been unable to rescue his womenfolk. Perhaps the Druids forbade it. Perhaps they were in cahoots with the Romans. And that was why her Gaul despised them so.

  Her grip tightened on her knife, and she silently willed him to continue.

  “And as such”—bitterness iced his words—“my choice of bride was condemned.”

  For a moment she continued staring at him, wondering at his choice of words. What did he mean? What bride? What did that have to do with being blackmailed by the enemy?

  The raucous background din faded, replaced by a dull buzzing that filled her ears and echoed inside her skull. “Your bride?” He was telling her about his wife?

  It hadn’t even occurred to her he was married. At first because he was nothing but her enemy and such things were of no account. But later, when he became more to her than merely the bastard Gaul, it should have crossed her mind. Yet still it hadn’t.

  “I knew her as a child. We grew up together. She was the daughter of one of our slaves.” His gaze pinned Morwyn to her seat. Not that she was capable of moving. Even her tongue felt paralyzed. “A slave herself.” And again bitterness tinged his words.

  Her face blazed. Thank the gods for the dim lighting so he couldn’t see. It was no great revelation, not truly, to know he was married. Doubtless he’d left her back in Gaul while he followed the Legions. And like so many barbarians he thought nothing of taking other women whenever the urge took him.

  As he had taken her. And even that she could understand because it was the
way of the world, even if it wasn’t her world. But what she couldn’t understand was the depth of tortured anguish glinting in his eyes, thundering behind his words.

  He was not merely married. He clearly adored his wife.

  It shouldn’t hurt, but it did. And she had a terrifying notion as to why.

  Because I care for him.

  “A slave.” Her lips were stiff, her tongue swollen, and the words rolled from her as heavy as rocks. She didn’t care if the bitch was a Gallic princess. The only thought that pulsed through her mind was the knowledge her Gaul loved the foreign woman.

  “The Druids forbade our union.” He twisted the stem of the goblet between thumb and forefinger. “Despite the fact that by then I’d secured her freedom.”

  Morwyn drained her wine, and the liquid scalded her still empty stomach. Her Gaul, despite his claim, must possess more than a mere drop of noble blood. Of course the Druids would forbid such a match. When it came to the nobility, they liked to keep the bloodlines pure. At least, that had been her experience in the past, and why should it be so different in Gaul?

  “Naturally, you defied them.” She couldn’t pretend a lightness she didn’t feel, and the words sounded harsh, as if she condemned him as had his Druids.

  She did condemn him. But not for the same reasons.

  “Naturally.” His tone was dry and his eyes bored into her as if he suddenly noticed her discomposure. She gritted her teeth, regulated her breath. No matter how she felt, she wouldn’t let him see that his revelations touched her. In another day or so she would leave him forever. His marital status didn’t matter.

  “Morwyn.” He reached across the table and trailed one finger along the line of her jaw. It took considerable willpower not to jerk back from his touch. “I didn’t think you’d be so disapproving.” To her disbelief there was a trace of censure in his tone as if her reaction somehow disappointed him in a fundamental way.

  “Why do you care for my approval or not?” The words were out before she could prevent them. He would have to be dead not to realize she was wounded by his confidence. The knowledge scraped along her nerve endings and she straightened, severing their connection. “I fail to see why you think I should be interested in the—the daily habits of your wife.”