The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  Morwyn laughed and shook her head. His flirting skills were admirable, even for one of the enemy. Except he didn’t strike her as one of the enemy. Romans and all their cohorts should be humorless, brutal thugs.

  The thought sobered, but only momentarily. The warm bubble of excitement, at the knowledge she would soon see her Gaul again, smothered any negative feeling that attempted to penetrate her brain.

  “Morwyn.”

  “A beautiful name. For a beautiful woman.”

  “You have very pretty manners.” She gave Gwyn a handful of brown, wrinkly fruits to stop her from fidgeting. “For one not of Cymru.”

  “Even in Gaul we can appreciate quality.”

  “From Gaul?” His grasp of her language was excellent but now that she considered it, his accent was very similar to her Gaul’s. “Then perhaps you aren’t all primitive barbarians after all.”

  He laughed, a deep rumbling sound, as if he took not the slightest offense to her remark. “Morwyn, can I entice you and your daughter to share this eve’s meal with me?”

  She glanced at Gwyn, who was engrossed in the sticky fruits, and decided not to correct his assumption. “Thank you, but I must decline.” She hesitated for only the briefest of heartbeats. “I’m involved with another.”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Of course you are. Forgive me for intruding. It was too much to hope you might be free.”

  Gods, but he possessed a silver tongue. Once, she might have been tempted by his outrageous flirtation. But now she would gladly forsake such empty compliments for a single, slow smile from her Gaul.

  “I assure you, I’m not enslaved.” She knew that wasn’t what he had meant, but the assumption she belonged to a man rankled. At least, it should have. Yet somehow it didn’t. As if, obscurely, she wanted to belong.

  “I’ve no doubt,” Gervas said. “Your lover is entirely enslaved by you.”

  An unintentional laugh escaped. Truly, his tongue was gifted. But still she wasn’t tempted. “Beware, Gervas. My lover is also an auxiliary in the Roman Legion. And a Gaul.”

  He grinned. “Then my last hope is crushed underfoot. Even I would hesitate to offend a fellow Gaul.”

  “You’re wise. Dunmacos isn’t one to cross with reckless abandon.”

  She’d said the words in jest, but Gervas stared at her as if she’d just announced she’d been with the Emperor of Rome himself.

  “Dunmacos?” There was no more teasing laughter in his tone. He sounded utterly devoid of emotion.

  “You know him?” But it was obvious Gervas knew of her Gaul. And clearly his impression wasn’t glowing.

  Affront stabbed through her. What was the matter with other men that they always thought the worst of him? No doubt Gervas had heard the same false rumors as Maximus, and had also jumped to ludicrous conclusions. She doubted the two men had even met.

  “Yes, I know him.” Gervas sounded reserved, his attitude no longer one of friendliness. He hadn’t moved, yet his retreat was palpable. “Dunmacos is my cousin.”

  She forgot about ushering Gwyn in the direction of their lodgings and stared at Gervas, shock prickling along her spine. “His cousin?” Her Gaul had not mentioned such a thing. But then, why would he? She had told him nothing of her kin either.

  “Have you been with him long?” Was it her imagination or did his glance flick with scarcely concealed condemnation to the bruises now fading on the left side of her face?

  She tilted her jaw. “Long enough.” Gods, it was obvious from his attitude he believed his cousin had inflicted the injuries upon her. Irritation bubbled. Gervas clearly didn’t know her Gaul at all. “Indeed,” she added in the tone she’d used when addressing recalcitrant children before the invasion, “he was the one who extricated me from those intent on pulverizing my face.”

  “My cousin, the hero.” Gervas sounded faintly disbelieving. “I don’t recall him being so considerate when we were young.”

  From the corner of her eye she caught sight of a familiar figure striding through the emptying marketplace. Instantly her irritation with Gervas melted away. She didn’t care what he thought of his cousin. It made no difference to her.

  “Then perhaps you’d better reacquaint yourself with him.” She flashed Gervas a mocking smile. “My lover approaches.”

  Chapter 25

  Negotiating his way through the marketplace on the way back to the lodgings, Bren saw the unmistakable figure of Morwyn by a fruit stall. She glanced his way at the same moment and her smile illuminated her face.

  Heat closed like a fist in his chest, hard and solid, constricting his lungs, but not wholly uncomfortable. Mostly it was renewed relief that, once again, she hadn’t decided to leave.

  That time would come. He knew it in his gut because there could be no other way, but for now he’d take whatever she offered. And hope she never discovered the true depths to which he’d sunk.

  Only when he was almost by her side did he become aware of the man she was with. The Roman auxiliary who regarded him with a face devoid of expression and fiercely intelligent eyes.

  A sense of danger speared through his brain and streaked along his spine. Bren didn’t know who the man was or what he was doing with Morwyn. All he knew was every survival instinct he possessed vibrated with primal warning.

  “It appears,” Morwyn said, and in his peripheral vision he saw she had one hand clasped lightly over the shoulder of a small child, “you harbor as much love for your cousin as he does for you.”

  Cousin. He’d never seen the man before in his life. His heart thudded against his ribs and the fundamental imperative to attack flooded his blood. Poised to thrust his dagger through the man’s throat if his enemy’s fingers so much as twitched.

  The man didn’t move a muscle. They might have been the only two left in the market, so intense was their focus on each other. Except they weren’t alone. Morwyn stood between them. And he couldn’t risk her safety by launching the first move.

  “Dunmacos.” The man’s lips barely moved. His eyes never left Bren’s. “It’s been a long time.”

  Every muscle rigid with tension, Bren remained silent. No matter how long it had been since the cousins had met, he couldn’t believe this man would mistake him for Dunmacos. For whatever purpose, this Gaul had decided not to immediately denounce his cover. Likely the man wanted to corner him alone before gutting him.

  He’d never get the chance.

  “Gervas,” Morwyn said, as if she was perfectly at ease with the other man. At least I now know the Gaul’s name. “Perhaps we can share that meal, after all? The four of us together.”

  Two things pierced his brain. One, Morwyn had just invited his deadliest enemy to share a meal with them. And two, the Gaul had obviously asked her to eat with him before Bren had arrived.

  For one thundering moment he wasn’t sure which fact infuriated him the most.

  Another, inconsequential fact hammered through his pounding temples. Four? He shot a glance at the child, who was staring up at him with big brown eyes. Fearless.

  Where the fuck had the child come from? He looked back at Gervas, who appeared to be considering his response to Morwyn’s suggestion.

  Bren couldn’t afford to allow the other man to refuse. Couldn’t let Gervas return to the garrison and report that Bren was an impostor.

  “Why not?” The Gaul sounded as enthusiastic as Bren felt, and the words fell into the heavy silence like boulders.

  “Good.” Morwyn took the free hand of the child, slid her arm through Bren’s and effectively erected a barrier between him and Gervas. She then proceeded to lead the way to a nearby tavern and procure them a table, and somehow he found himself sitting next to the child, opposite Morwyn, who had managed to seat Gervas in the corner by the wall.

  As military tactics went he couldn’t have planned his position better. But he hadn’t planned it and Morwyn wasn’t a tactician. He shot her a glance, but she appeared serene as she instructed the child to sit up straigh
t and stop picking her nose. She certainly didn’t give the impression that she’d arranged their seating with anything other than sheer coincidence.

  “So, cousin.” Gervas offered a chilly smile. “I’ve followed your progress over the last ten years. Impressive.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage. I’ve not followed your progress at all.”

  Morwyn glanced at Bren as if something in his tone alerted her there was more than simple family dislike in the atmosphere. He didn’t return her glance. Couldn’t afford to take his eyes from Gervas.

  “That,” Gervas said, “doesn’t surprise me.”

  A serving wench deposited an amphora of ale on the table. It could stay there. Bren wasn’t clouding his mind when his life was on the line.

  “And you’ve never served together before?” Morwyn transferred her glance to Gervas, who favored her with a fleeting smile. Something rancid knotted deep in Bren’s gut and he fisted his hands to prevent them from curling around Gervas’ throat and squeezing the life from him.

  “Never,” Gervas confirmed.

  “Then you both must have a great deal to say to each other.”

  Neither man spoke. If Morwyn noticed the animosity simmering in the air, she chose to ignore it. But why did she choose to ignore it? She didn’t normally shy away from confrontation. Or was that only with him? Did she not feel the need to probe and demand answers from Gervas?

  “I’d much rather spend my time talking to you, Morwyn,” Gervas said at last.

  Heat flared through Bren, scorching his mind. The bastard was flirting with her. Under my nose. And Morwyn didn’t put him in his place with a sharp retort.

  Instead she gave a soft laugh as though she found the Gaul’s words amusing.

  “I fear I must disappoint you,” she said, dark eyes flashing as if she enjoyed the interaction. Bren’s chest seethed against iron bands intent on crushing his lungs. “This eve is for you and your cousin to reconnect. I’m only here to stop you killing each other.”

  Momentarily distracted from his rigid self-control, Bren glowered at her. Her choice of words were unfortunate since the only thing he and Gervas appeared to have in common was the desire to murder each other.

  “I applaud you on your choice of Morwyn.” Gervas was now looking directly at Bren. Challenging. “I find it hard to believe you deserve her.”

  He didn’t deserve her. Never would. But that had nothing to do with Gervas.

  Their food arrived. More stew. Was that all they served in this settlement? Beside him the child dived into her bowl, as if she was famished, and a flicker of memory stirred. Did he know this child? How could he know her?

  “Gwyn.” Morwyn lifted her knife and speared a piece of meat. Without any further instruction the girl picked up her own knife and followed Morwyn’s lead. He glanced up, to find Gervas studying him through narrowed eyes.

  “I find myself curious as to what’s happened to you since last we met, cousin.”

  Bren deliberately ate some stew, while his brain plowed through old information he’d amassed years ago. He could recall no cousin of Dunmacos called Gervas. He thought he and the small band of warriors he’d once led had covered all their tracks three years ago. He should have known that was impossible.

  “Nothing that hasn’t happened to a thousand other auxiliaries attached to the Legions.”

  Gervas swirled his knife in his stew and Bren tensed, readying himself for a sudden flick of the other man’s wrist. But Gervas didn’t appear to be preparing for attack. He appeared to want answers first.

  “Word reached me only recently of the massacre you endured three years ago.” Gervas paused with his knife play and their gazes clashed. “I regret your loss.”

  Despite his focus on Gervas, Bren was aware of how Morwyn shot him a glance, as if the words held meaning for her. But they didn’t. He had said nothing to her of that blood-soaked night and never would. He ignored her in favor of maintaining eye contact with the Gaul.

  But said nothing.

  “It must be hard being the only survivor,” Gervas said. “Knowing how many of your kin lost their lives that night.”

  Beneath the table, Bren unsheathed his dagger. From the awkward angle, he couldn’t make a kill, but he could maim. So long as the child remained still by his side.

  “Although at least, so I heard, you took out a great many of the enemy before incinerating your village.”

  Morwyn’s knife clattered onto the table, distracting him. She stared at him, but her expression was unreadable; as if she herself scarcely knew how she was feeling.

  This was why he could never confide in anyone. Even the few words of his past he’d admitted to her were now coming back to haunt him. But that didn’t trouble him. What concerned him was the possibility she’d say something to dispute Gervas’ recollection of the facts and by doing so could put her life in danger.

  He’d told her of his own loss. But Gervas was speaking of Dunmacos’.

  His fingers tightened on his dagger and again he focused on Gervas. In the few moments Bren had been looking at Morwyn, the other man could have slung his own dagger through Bren’s throat. Shit, he couldn’t afford to be distracted. But Morwyn distracted him simply by sitting opposite him. Simply by being.

  “The enemy perished.” Let Gervas make what he wished of that. It was the truth. That night Dunmacos had died. But so, in every way that mattered, had Bren.

  “Yes.” For a long moment Gervas held his gaze. Then he finally speared a lump of meat onto the end of his knife and examined it. “They did.”

  * * *

  The excruciating meal dragged on. Bren ate but only through force of habit. He tasted nothing and drank nothing, and listened to the flirting banter between Morwyn and Gervas with growing irritation.

  The irritation was irrational. He knew it but couldn’t prevent it. When all his senses should be on full alert for attack, the greater part of his mind was eaten up by the fact Morwyn enjoyed the other man’s company.

  The child—Gwyn—tugged on his sleeve and he turned to her, banishing his frown only with difficulty. “Yes?” Was she wearing one of Morwyn’s silk ribbons?

  “I need to piss.”

  He stared at her. He’d not had much interaction with children since the night he’d lost Eryn, and virtually none since he’d become Dunmacos. The thought of escorting her to the latrines didn’t fill him with enthusiasm.

  Morwyn tapped her finger on the table. “Do you need to relieve yourself, Gwyn?”

  Gwyn sucked on her upper lip for a moment as if processing Morwyn’s question. “Yes.”

  Morwyn stood, and he rose to allow Gwyn access. Bren spared only a fleeting moment to watch them cross the crowded room before returning his attention to Gervas.

  The other man’s eyes locked with his. “So Dunmacos died three years ago.” It wasn’t a question.

  “We’ll take this outside.” His voice was as low as Gervas’.

  Gervas picked up his tankard, took a long swallow, and then regarded him over the rim.

  “Dunmacos was distant blood kin. He was also the biggest bastard I’ve come across.”

  “He fought with courage.” It was a lie. Bren had gutted him while Dunmacos staggered in a drunken stupor, and then forced his stinking entrails down his convulsing throat. Some things were better left unsaid.

  Gervas circled the rim of his tankard with one finger. “Your reasons for taking on his identity don’t concern me. Had you truly been Dunmacos, I would have already cut your throat.” His smile chilled the air. “I’ve been relishing such retribution all week.”

  Bren needed a drink. He refused to succumb. Instead he sucked in a long breath and attempted to straighten his mangled thoughts. “You’re not after my blood?”

  Gervas shrugged. His eyes were cold. “I’d rather have taken his but it appears I’m too late. Was it personal?”

  The question was unexpected. Bren tensed, senses alert. “Personal?”

  “His
home village was razed. That wasn’t a brawl that got out of hand.”

  Blood pounded against Bren’s temple and he clenched his jaw in an effort to stem the useless rage that polluted his soul. Personal? The memory of Eryn’s terrified whimpers shredded the fabric of his existence.

  “It was.” The words charred his throat.

  Gervas’ finger stilled on the tankard. “For me, also.”

  From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Morwyn and the child returning. He had one last question to ask.

  “Did he murder her too?”

  Finally Gervas dropped his gaze and stared into his ale. “No. After he finished with her, she took her own life.”

  * * *

  Morwyn couldn’t put her finger on it but something had changed between her Gaul and Gervas while they’d been alone. Antagonism still clogged the air but it no longer vibrated with the glinting edge of murder. It was as if, beneath mutual distrust, a bond had been forged.

  Yet still an unformed suspicion clouded the outer reaches of her consciousness. It was too ephemeral to grasp but teased her with a hidden knowledge. Something important she needed to know that concerned the two men who eyed each other with such controlled restraint.

  Something intrinsically entwined with that night her Gaul’s wife had died. The night Gervas had mentioned. The discrepancy of when such atrocity had occurred.

  By unspoken command, the two men stood and readied to leave. Dusk had not yet settled and they made their way back to the lodgings in silence. It appeared Gervas had lost his appetite for flirtatious conversation, and in truth all she wanted was to wrap her arms around her Gaul. Just to know that . . . she could.

  “I go this way.” Gervas was no longer by her side and she turned, along with her Gaul, to stare at him. He was looking at his cousin. “Do we understand each other?”

  After a heartbeat of silence, her Gaul responded. “Yes.”

  Gervas raised his arm, and after another agonizing moment her Gaul grasped his hand, their forearms straining against each other, entwined fists clenched to the darkening sky. An odd shiver of apprehension scuttled along her spine, although she couldn’t tell why. Wasn’t this what she had wanted? For them to bury their differences and look to the future?