“Bren,” the man—Caratacus?—said, and Dunmacos fell to one knee in greeting. Morwyn shivered in distaste at his hypocrisy and slid cold fingers over the hilt of her dagger.
Caratacus jerked his head at his men, who instantly left the clearing. She pulled back into the shadows and held her breath, but none of them came close to her hiding place. Goddess, what lengths had Dunmacos gone to in the past, in order to have secured the king’s trust that he would dismiss his warriors?
When she returned her attention to the Briton, Dunmacos was once again on his feet. She edged closer until she was at the perimeter of the clearing, until she was a child’s stone’s throw away from the two men.
“. . . feared something had happened to detain you,” Caratacus said.
“No.” Her Gaul no longer looked deferential. In fact, he looked as if he was trying to hold on to his temper. “I thought you’d discarded your plans for outright combat.”
Queasiness churned. Dunmacos had inveigled himself very close to the seat of power if he could suggest such things without being accused of treason.
“No, Bren. You want to discard our plans. Not I.”
“Gods’ sakes, Caratacus!” The words erupted from his mouth. “The Romans will fucking slaughter us. Our warriors don’t have the discipline to meet them as equals on the killing fields.”
She huddled against the trunk of the tree, the rough bark scraping her face. Why was he cautioning against open combat? Just because he was betraying Rome didn’t mean he possessed any loyalty toward the Britons. Why would he care if Caratacus’ followers were slaughtered?
Was he was trying to prevent needless bloodshed for the Legion?
Except if he was deceiving the Romans, that makes even less sense. Whose side was he on?
For the first time anger flashed across Caratacus’ features. “Our warriors are fearless. We’re more than a match for the spineless Roman barbarians.”
Dunmacos swung on his heel and marched directly toward Morwyn. As if he knew her hiding place. But then he whirled and paced back to the Briton. “Our tactics are working. They’re sending the Legion of Ostorius Scapula from Camulodunon to boost morale. Continue as we have been and we will prevail.”
“Another Legion?” Caratacus expelled a breath between gritted teeth. “All the more reason to change tactics, Bren. They won’t be expecting it. We can wipe them out.”
She had never heard of Ostorius Scapula, but it was clear Dunmacos had gleaned that information from the dispatch he’d opened that night in Camulodunon. Goddess, she was so confused. Was he betraying the Romans or Caratacus?
An unsavory answer slithered into her mind. Both?
“And nothing I say can change your mind?”
“It was already done the last time we spoke, Bren. The last of our Druids and warriors are leaving this enclave today. I was waiting only for your return.”
Breath ragged, she stealthily retreated as a sickening realization clawed into her heart. Whatever the truth was, Caratacus believed Dunmacos was loyal to him. The Briton wouldn’t believe the word of her, a stranger, above that of a man he obviously trusted.
But it wasn’t that that sickened her. It was the knowledge she couldn’t expose her Gaul as a traitor, even now. Not to the Briton king, not to the Roman Legion.
She had no love for the Romans. But something deep inside her soul withered at the evidence Dunmacos could so easily betray those to whom he’d given his pledge.
The tip of a blade pierced between her shoulder blades and she froze. She’d been so intent on watching her Gaul, so intent on her tumultuous thoughts, she’d given no heed to where she was going. Would she be hauled before the king for eavesdropping, thrown at his feet in an ignoble heap?
In front of her Gaul?
“We meet again.” The hoarse whisper was eerily familiar although she couldn’t place it. She began to turn, and the blade jabbed against the top of her spine, paralyzing her in sudden terror. That voice. She recognized it, but from where?
A hand closed around her biceps and dragged her further back into the forest and she stumbled on the tangled roots, unable to see where she was going. Then he jerked her around and flung her against the broad trunk of a tree. And she remembered.
“You?” The word gasped, disbelieving, and instinctively her fingers flew to the hilt of her dagger. He grinned, a slashing of lips and a flash of teeth, and waved his own dagger in front of her eyes, stilling her hand.
“I’m guessing,” the Gaul barbarian said, “Dunmacos didn’t bring you here himself.”
She wasn’t going to talk about Dunmacos, not to this piece of filth. “You’re with Caratacus?” Was the entire auxiliary unit of the Legion working for the Briton king?
For a moment he didn’t answer, merely traced the tip of his blade along the length of her nose, over her compressed lips and jaw, until he came to a halt at the base of her throat. She hoped he couldn’t see how frantically her pulse raced. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly he affected her.
“Caratacus charged me with finding the bastard who’s been selling information to the Romans. You’re lucky you escaped when you did. He was out for your blood yesterday.”
She didn’t believe him. And yet in a dark corner of her mind his words made obscene sense. How else would he know she’d escaped Dunmacos the previous day?
“I’m more inclined to believe you’re the traitor, not him.”
“Yes, that would make it very convenient, wouldn’t it?” He trailed his dagger downward, as if it were an extension of his finger, tracing across the vulnerable swell of her breast. “But untrue. If you could see the slaughter his betrayal’s cost us. Children. Babies. A quagmire of innocent blood. All because Dunmacos would sell his soul for extra coin in his pouch.”
She forced a derisive laugh. “And you, a brutal would-be rapist, are the savior of Cymru?”
The tip of his dagger ripped through the top thread of her bodice. She refused to acknowledge his action and maintained eye contact. Because at the first flicker of distraction, she would strike.
He ripped through a second thread but didn’t even glance at his handiwork. “Caratacus trusts me with his life. Why else do you think he sent me undercover in the Legion to spy on Dunmacos?”
* * *
Within moments of leaving his king, Bren froze as the unmistakable voice of Trogus came from seemingly nowhere. Was he losing his mind? Was his fury over Caratacus’ plans causing him to hear things?
There wasn’t any way Trogus could have found his way into the hidden enclave. And then a chill scuttled along the back of his neck. He hadn’t been as meticulously careful in concealing his tracks this day. Gods, was it possible that because of his black preoccupation, Trogus had been able to follow him?
Bren unsheathed his dagger and turned in the direction from where the voice had originated. Although whom Trogus was talking to he couldn’t imagine. Far more likely the bastard would kill anyone he saw on sight.
And this was why they’d needed sufficient guards at the entrance. Gods, it drove him insane when—
“No one in their right senses would send a creature like you to spy on a warrior such as Dunmacos. He possesses more honor in one glance than you could hope to salvage in seven lifetimes.”
For one amplified, echoing heartbeat that vibrated every bone in his body and rattled his brain against his skull, Bren knew he had tumbled into madness.
Morwyn couldn’t be here. Captured by Trogus—once again—and forced to listen to the filthy lies that spewed from the other man’s mouth.
And instead of pleading for her life, or agreeing with Trogus in hopes of lowering his guard, she was defending Bren?
The last revelation slammed him back to the present. She was at Trogus’ mercy—there was no doubt in his mind of her predicament—and yet she defended him against Trogus?
“Bastard fooled you easy enough.” Trogus sounded amused. Bren edged forward and now he coul
d see how Trogus had Morwyn pinned against a tree, how his dagger traced insolently over her partially exposed breast. “Would you like me to tell you of his bloodlust as he slaughters your countrymen for the might of Rome?”
Bren sucked in a calming breath through his mouth, but his blood boiled in his veins at the knowledge it was his fault Trogus had found the enclave. His fault Morwyn was, yet again, in danger.
He angled into position, calculated the distance and drew his sword in his free hand on the slender possibility that his first assault wouldn’t sufficiently disable Trogus.
Morwyn laughed, the sound sharp and eerie and wrong, and it momentarily threw Bren off balance. “How much longer do you intend to regale me with the bold deeds of Dunmacos? Can it be his exploits excite you? Is that the only way your putrid worm of a cock thickens?”
Curse the gods, what was she thinking? Did she want Trogus to plunge the dagger through her heart? Even from this distance Bren could see the mad gleam in the other man’s eyes. Without waiting for further proof of Morwyn’s inability to protect her self-interests, he sent the dagger flying and it impaled Trogus’ cheek, hurling him to the ground.
Bren covered the short distance in an instant, intending to prize Morwyn from the tree and crush her in his arms to comfort her. But she was already on her knees by Trogus, who was trying desperately to tug Bren’s dagger from his cheek, and she gripped his hair in one hand, forcing his head back so his throat was fully exposed.
“You fucking barbarian,” she said clearly, before she spat in his face and opened his artery. Then she dropped his head, wiped her blade on the grass and looked up.
Chapter 31
Relief that she was safe and fury that she had antagonized a man who’d held her life in his hands, flooded his mind in a jumbled torrent. Faint bruising still marred her face, traces of blood streaked her nose, her mouth, her jaw and her throat, her hands were bloodied and engrained with dirt, and she was the bravest, most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Were you trying to get yourself killed?” His voice was harsh, and to stop himself from shaking sense into her he swiftly retrieved his dagger to occupy his free hand.
“I had no intention of being killed.” Disdain dripped from every word, as if his concern was beneath her.
He straightened and glared at her for her foolish pride. “You mocked his masculinity and you think he wasn’t this close to murdering you?”
“That’s right.” As she rose to her feet, as regal as a queen, her dark eyes flashed and breasts heaved, as if she was having trouble filling her lungs. Blood surged and his cock responded and he clenched the hilts of his sword and dagger until his knuckles ached. “He was so insulted, his attention wavered.” Her breath hissed between her teeth. “I had no need for you to rescue me, Gaul.”
He glanced at the body of Trogus. Dark blood soaked the earth and pumped from his opened throat. “Would you rather I stood by and watch him maul you?”
Morwyn thrust the tip of her dagger to the lifeless body. “That’s what happens to those who maul me.”
The stench of foul blood and the pungent aroma of clean earth thudded in the air, mingling with the scent of arousal and denial. He sheathed his sword, flexed his fingers and gripped his dagger as though he faced his deadliest enemy.
She continued to glare at him, as if the feeling was mutual, her dagger no longer pointing at Trogus.
“Did he bring you here?” When? How? Trogus would have disarmed Morwyn at the earliest opportunity. But how else had she entered the enclave?
Her lip curled in clear disgust. “I have no need for traitors or barbarians to bring me anywhere. You’re not the only one with secrets, Gaul.”
Her warm breath grazed his face. Had he moved toward her? Or had she stepped toward him? He couldn’t remember, didn’t care. Danger pounded with every thud of his heart, hot and heavy and, gods, it felt good, right. As if only with Morwyn his senses became fully alive.
Barely aware of his actions, he let his fingers trail along the proud angle of her jaw. Her skin was warm, silky. She didn’t jerk away, but loathing filled her eyes as if his touch repelled.
Yet her breathing quickened and a blush heated her cheeks. It was clear she hated the way her body responded to his touch.
“Secrets?” He should step back. Allow them both space to think, to breathe. But Morwyn didn’t move and neither did he, as if they were imprisoned within the deceptive beauty of amber.
“Oh, yes.” The tip of her dagger pressed against his heart. He could feel it like a brand against his skin, even through the chain mail he wore. “This Sacred Spiral that hides so much is a cursed legacy from my High Druid.”
For a moment he didn’t understand the significance of her words, why she sounded so bitter. And then fragments of reality intruded: the rumored source of this magical enclave, the holy martyr who had died while attempting to cleanse the land of the invaders.
“You were from his village?” No wonder she hated the Romans so.
She bared her teeth in a mockery of the smile he had thought never to see again.
“His village? He owned nothing. Not me, none of my compatriots.” Her blade slid against his chest, as delicate as a lover’s caress. “I’m a Druid, Gaul.”
His fingers stilled against her face. A Druid. No shock ricocheted through his blood; no disgust hammered through his brain. He’d always known she was more than a trader, had guessed she possessed noble blood. In a buried corner of his soul, he had always suspected the truth.
Her pride. Her fearlessness. The cut of her gown, the quality of her jewelry. And then he was catapulted back to that night when he’d told her of Eryn, when she had whispered strange words of comfort. Only now did he recall they were the same words the Druids, who had feverishly worked to save his life six years ago, had intoned over his broken body.
How had he, for even a moment, imagined she had been a slave?
Gods. The woman in the forum. Morwyn’s lifelong friend. The wife of the tribune. No wonder that strange, haunted expression had flickered over her face when he’d told her of the rumors surrounding the tribune’s wife. Had she imagined he intended to betray her friend’s secret to his superiors?
“Yes.” The word was a hiss. Her free hand gripped his forearm, as if she would drive his dagger through her heart. “One of the despised Druids. What do you think of that?” She sounded triumphant, despairing, as if she truly thought it made a difference to the way he felt.
“I don’t care what you are.” His fingers tangled in the curling tendrils that escaped her braid. “You’re mine now.” Because there was no going back. Not for him to the garrison or for Morwyn to her previous life. Now that she knew he wasn’t her enemy, there was nothing to keep them apart.
Her blade slipped beneath the layers of iron rings and pierced his flesh. He gritted his teeth and laid the flat of his blade against the tempting swell of her exposed flesh. She didn’t try to prevent him. Instead, her grip tightened around his arm, as if she wanted him to mar her skin, draw blood as she drew his.
It would never happen.
“I belong to no man.” Yet even as she spoke she swayed toward him and he hastily altered the angle of his dagger so she didn’t injure herself. “I’m not yours, and I never will be.”
Her lips parted; her dark eyes invited. He scarcely comprehended her words as he lowered his head. “I don’t recall offering you the choice, Morwyn.”
Warm, spiced breath tantalized his lips as she struggled to maintain some vestige of control. “I don’t fuck traitors.” The words lanced his lust-drenched senses and scorched his brain.
“Traitor?” He pulled back, but only enough so he could scrutinize her face, to ensure she wasn’t indulging in some warped jest.
She looked utterly serious. And utterly wretched. As if she believed she knew the truth.
“Morwyn.” He softened his tone, cradled her face and attempted to remove his dagger from her breast. But she tightened her finge
rs around him, and since the last thing he wanted was a fight, he ceased resisting. “I’m not a traitor. These are my people. Not the Romans.”
He half expected her to melt into his arms with joyful relief. But this was Morwyn. And Morwyn never did anything he expected. Even her expression of resigned misery didn’t alter. As if his words didn’t surprise her, but didn’t sway her either.
“Bren.” The voice echoed through the forest and he bit back a curse as Morwyn immediately pulled back. With the history they shared, Judoc was the last person he wanted to see while he was trying to convince Morwyn of his loyalty.
Judoc, blood kin on his mother’s side, a close aide to Caratacus and the only one left alive who knew the full depths of depravity to which Bren had sunk on that night three years ago.
“Fuck it, Bren.” Judoc glared at him. It was obvious he hadn’t seen Morwyn, who had retreated into the shade. He kept her in his peripheral vision. She wouldn’t escape him a second time. Not now, when he no longer needed to keep up the pretense of being Dunmacos.
“What?” Bren’s impatience was clear in his voice and he tapped his dagger against his thigh in mounting irritation.
“Caratacus—” Judoc’s glance fell upon Trogus’ body and his stance instantly stiffened into warrior mode. He whipped out his dagger and advanced, his eyes never leaving the figure by Bren’s feet.
It was obvious to a half-wit the bastard was dead. And Judoc was far from witless. Bren gritted his teeth. It was clear an explanation was required. Perhaps then Judoc would leave and let Bren finish convincing Morwyn to take a chance on him.
Judoc made an odd gagging sound, his eyes widened in stupefaction, and then he collapsed at Bren’s feet, one hand clutching his neck.
For a moment Bren stared at the other man, his brain unable to process the evidence of his eyes. Then Morwyn grabbed Bren’s arm and tugged him until he tore his gaze from Judoc and looked at her.
There was a wild look in her eyes and the blood and dirt that smeared her face gave her an exotically feral appearance. Her dagger was sheathed and in her free hand she held a slender reed.
The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection Page 57