The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  “Whether she attacked or not, the danger was negligible.” Gingerly he lifted her honey-colored braid. It was surprisingly heavy.

  No blood seeped into the grass beneath her.

  With odd reluctance, he released her hair and frowned into her face. He knew he had never seen her before. He would never forget a face such as hers. And yet the eerie certainty that they had met in the past gnawed at the edges of his consciousness.

  The auxiliary had dismounted and now stood by his side. “She’s no peasant,” he said, stating the obvious as though it were a great revelation. “She’ll fetch a good price on the block.”

  Distaste for the Gallian mutated into cold loathing. Tacitus stood, towered over the other man, using not only his superior height and strength but also his rank and, gods curse it, his formidable heritage to intimidate.

  Before the Gallian had time to do anything but stumble back in sudden alarm, another officer and several auxiliaries of the cavalry appeared. Tacitus transferred his glare to the tribune, Blandus, his own blood cousin, who had arrived with the Legion commanded by Ostorius Scapula the previous day.

  Raw frustration ripped through his chest. When he’d encountered the Celt kneeling by the stream, his interest had been caught. When she whirled around, dagger in hand, he’d been enchanted by the vision of the fragile water sprite in warrior maiden mode. And when she answered him back as if she was his equal and not in imminent danger from her deadliest enemy, he’d been captivated.

  There had been no doubt in his mind that this day would end with her in his bed.

  “Tacitus.” Blandus grinned, clearly well satisfied with the day’s events. Until moments ago, Tacitus had been feeling good about the day too. Until that fucking stupid Gallian had interfered. “Wondered where you’d disappeared to.” His gaze shifted to the ground, to where the Celt lay. “Not dead is she?”

  “No.” Tacitus forced the word between his teeth. A few moments longer was all he had needed to secure her surrender. Then he could have protected her as a casualty of war. Now if she survived, she risked the fate of all captured insurgents.

  And looking as she did, her fate would not be crucifixion.

  Blandus dismounted and strolled toward the fallen woman. “Gods, she’s a beauty.” He crouched down to get a closer look. Tacitus only just prevented himself from shoving his cousin onto his arse. “Clean her up, get rid of the blood and filth.” Blandus reached out and brushed tendrils of her hair from her face. If any other man had dared to touch her so, Tacitus would smash his fist into their face. But Blandus was his cousin, and this woman—this girl—did not even belong to him to warrant such protection.

  “And the arrow.” Tacitus’ voice was scathing. “Or didn’t you notice that?”

  Blandus grunted. “Whoever is responsible for that should be gutted.” His hand curved over her uninjured shoulder and along her arm, before cradling her breasts.

  Tacitus crouched on the other side of the Celt and glowered at Blandus. “She’s not a fucking horse. Take your hands off her.”

  Blandus shot him a salacious grin before sliding his fingers across her belly toward the apex of her thighs. Tacitus knocked his hand away. It turned his stomach to see Blandus treat her as if she wasn’t even human.

  “I see the way your mind is working.” Blandus’ voice was low, although dark amusement glinted in his eyes. “She’s damaged goods. We could get her for a bargain if we offered to attend her injuries ourselves. And I’ve no doubt we could make a good profit on resale by the time we tired of her.”

  Tacitus looked back at her face and a jolt shot through him. Her eyes were open, staring up at him, but they were glazed as though she could not truly see him. Without thinking, he cupped her jaw and rubbed his thumb across her cheek. As much as he wished to take issue with his cousin’s offensive remarks if he didn’t get this Celt back to civilization soon, the chances were high she wouldn’t survive the night.

  With a deep breath, he gripped the arrow in her shoulder and snapped the shaft. She gasped and then her eyes rolled back and she descended once more into oblivion.

  “Ten lashes?” Blandus said as Tacitus gently lifted the Celt into his arms. He hoped she remained unconscious until the physician managed to remove the rest of the arrow from her shoulder.

  “What?” He glared at Blandus. The girl weighed next to nothing. So light, she could easily be a water sprite. What the fuck had she been doing, wandering alone in the aftermath of battle? She had wielded a dagger, but there had been no danger to his life. She was too small, too fragile to cause harm to anyone, let alone a warrior.

  Blandus nodded at the girl. “The one who damaged her. Ten lashes?”

  Tacitus stood, his attention on the pale face of his Celt. “He’s from your Legion. Your responsibility.”

  Blandus jerked his head in confirmation, then reached out for the girl. It took a moment for Tacitus to realize his cousin was merely offering assistance while he mounted his horse. With grim reluctance he handed his charge over and then lifted her limp body and positioned her against his armored chest.

  One arm wrapped around her, he angled his jaw in an attempt to keep her head upright. Her hair was soft against his throat and the faint scent of wild berries teased his senses.

  He gritted his teeth and urged his horse forward. The Celt was soft and vulnerable and unconscious. It was depraved that he still found her not only intriguing but impossibly desirable.

  Blandus drew alongside. “We’ll have to make our intentions known directly,” he said. “Even injured, this one will attract plenty of attention. I for one don’t want to lose out to your beloved commander.”

  Tacitus shot his cousin a black glare. His commander was Blandus’ uncle, although no blood relation to Tacitus. He was, however, a lifelong friend of Tacitus’ father.

  The thought of the commander touching this Celt was repugnant. But too easily imagined. The older man had an insatiable penchant for young girls, especially those with blonde hair. Already Tacitus could see the lust in the commander’s eyes. There was no doubt that, if he saw her, he would buy her before she even reached the market.

  Blandus made a sound of impatience. “She’s an enemy of Rome, Tacitus. She was captured in battle. Her fate is sealed. Now are you interested or not?”

  Tacitus tightened his hold around the Celt. Her breasts pressed against his bare arm, full and tempting, and the extent of her vulnerability was acid through his gut.

  In the eyes of his countrymen, she was already a slave. It was inevitable and another wave of fury against the Gallian scalded his blood. She could have remained free. He would have ensured she remained free.

  Now all he could do was ensure she remained out of the clutches of his commander.

  “I’m interested.” The words seared his throat and he glared ahead, not able to trust himself to look at his cousin in case he followed with physical violence. It wouldn’t help the situation and it wasn’t as if Blandus was to blame.

  Blandus punched his arm and Tacitus shot him a grim look. His cousin, who knew as much about him as anyone, and more than most, had an odd expression on his face. He knew of Tacitus’ reluctance—of course he fucking knew—but Tacitus was aware he still found it hard to comprehend.

  “You need to get over this aversion.” Blandus’ voice was low, for Tacitus’ ears only. “It’s unnatural. I’m not saying you have to fuck every female slave you own but gods, Tacitus. It’s better than solitary relief.”

  “I’m more than capable of finding women to serve my needs.” That had never been a problem. The only difficulty he had was taking a slave. Despite how many his father had offered him from the age of fourteen.

  “True. But you won’t always have that opportunity. It’s not as if you’d have to take any of them against their will. Some of them are more than eager to share their master’s bed.”

  “Shut up, Blandus.” Irritation spiked through him that he couldn’t gallop away from his cousin. The terrain w
as too uncertain and he didn’t want to risk injuring the Celt any more than she had been already. “Tell me. What would you do if one of your slave girls refused your advances? Reward her with a few coins, a pretty ribbon for her hair? Or relegate her to the foulest tasks on your estate?”

  From the corner of his eye he saw Blandus recoil, clearly offended. And even through the fog that clouded his mind, Tacitus knew his accusation was unfounded.

  Blandus might enjoy the favors of slave girls, but he never took what was not willingly offered. The trouble was, Blandus couldn’t appreciate the irony. How could a slave ever truly have the choice?

  “It’s as well I know you,” Blandus said. “I trust you don’t speak of such things in general conversation. Your loyalty to Rome would be in serious danger of being questioned.”

  Tacitus grunted. “The Emperor has my loyalty.” He imagined the Celt being shipped off to Rome and instinctively pulled her closer. Her exotic beauty would ensure she was bought for pleasure. They had spoken for only a few moments but he doubted she’d hold her tongue when faced with the prospect of slavery. She could end up beaten, branded. Forced to work in the fields. And end up being used by any man who so much as looked at her.

  Two legionaries emerged up ahead and with an impatient hiss, Tacitus reined in his mount. They were from his Legion, and addressed him as their senior officer.

  “Sir, we believe we’ve found Caratacus’ queen and daughter. The Primus is with them now.”

  He forced his mind away from his Celt’s bleak future. A future he had no intention of her ever enduring.

  “Good.” He turned to Blandus. “Would you take my stead? I’ll continue back with our captive.”

  Blandus gave a sharp nod, but his eyes gleamed with appreciation. He had instantly caught Tacitus’ meaning. The argument was over.

  “Secure a good enough price,” Blandus said as he prepared to follow the legionaries, “and when we’re done, I’ll sell my share back to you at cost. Then you can salve your conscience by granting her manumission.” He paused for a moment. “If they allow you such favor.”

  * * *

  Tacitus took her to the makeshift valetudinarium in the camp situated at the base of the mountain, not far from the river. But it was only a temporary camp, swiftly constructed before they’d marched on the enemy that morning. As soon as circumstances allowed, they would return to their permanent garrison, to the southeast of Cambria.

  Once they returned to the garrison, the slave traders would arrive, and those captured during this battle would be sold.

  He shouldered his way into the medical tent. Until they had breached the Celts’ roughly constructed ramparts, Romans had fallen beneath the missiles rained upon them. But once the ramparts had been demolished, his countrymen’s superior training and equipment had decimated the enemy without mercy. Tacitus knew that, considering the scale of the battle, Roman casualties hadn’t been harsh but enough needed treatment for their injuries that would ensure an unconscious Celt wouldn’t be seen until the morning.

  “Marcellus.” He caught sight of the physician he sought. The man he’d known from childhood and the only one here he would trust with the Celt.

  Marcellus, only a year older than Tacitus, strolled over, wiping his hands on a cloth. He eyed the girl with interest.

  “Since when do Tribunes bring in the injured?”

  Tacitus ignored the taunt. “She hit her head on a rock after the arrow impaled her.”

  Marcellus studied her face. “Leave her over there.” He jerked his thumb to the left, where a regimented line of the injured lay on pallets. “We’ll get to her shortly.”

  “No. You’ll treat her now.”

  Marcellus finally tore his gaze from the girl’s face and looked at Tacitus.

  “Why? Is she someone of import?”

  “Yes. She’s mine.” But not officially.

  Marcellus raised his eyebrows. “Your slave?” He sounded skeptical.

  “Yes.” They both knew it was a lie. But Tacitus would pay well for the special treatment. They both knew that too.

  “If you say so.” Marcellus indicated that Tacitus should follow him. “The conditions here are primitive but I’ll do my best.” He opened a flap in the side of the tent that led into what Tacitus assumed had to be an operating room. Except it wasn’t a room, it was another fucking tent.

  With reluctance, he laid the Celt on the operating table, positioning her on a pile of cloths to reduce unnecessary pressure on her injured shoulder. Then he folded his arms and swept a condemning glance around. Primitive was putting it mildly. Barbaric was the term he’d use to describe the conditions.

  Marcellus hitched open the flap and Tacitus heard him order for assistance, instruments and whatever else he needed. Then the physician turned back to him.

  “You can go now,” Marcellus said. He went to the Celt’s side and sliced through the sleeveless leather waist tunic she wore over her pale green woolen gown. The leather had stopped the arrow from going right through her shoulder, which was a relief. Had she not been wearing the short tunic, her injury would be far worse. “I’ll send a messenger to inform you of the outcome.”

  “I’m staying.”

  Marcellus looked up, a frown darkening his brow. “This is my area of expertise, Tacitus. I don’t want or need you here.”

  An auxiliary medic entered, bringing the requisites Marcellus had ordered. Tacitus’ lip curled. Did Marcellus really think he’d leave his vulnerable water sprite alone with two men?

  “Just get on with it.”

  Marcellus swore under his breath, but obviously decided this was a battle he was doomed to lose. He turned back to his patient and began to peel her stained gown over her breast.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Tacitus snatched the material and pulled it roughly over her breast. And tried not to think about the tantalizing glimpse of pale, luscious flesh or rosy nipple Marcellus had so callously exposed to view.

  Marcellus jabbed his scalpel in Tacitus’ face.

  “Shut up or get out.” He sounded irritated. “I’m a physician. I’ve seen naked women before without experiencing the animalistic urge to rut with them. Now do you want me to try to save this slave of yours or not?”

  Tacitus gritted his teeth, clenched his fists and refolded his arms.

  And managed to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the procedure.

  Chapter 3

  Nimue was back in the forest of her childhood, in the sacred oak grove, watching her mother give sacrifice to the most powerful Goddess of them all.

  She looked up into the night sky. The full moon, as bright as if it were illuminated by a thousand candles, dominated her vision and awe filled her soul at the breathtaking beauty.

  Arianrhod, let me be worthy.

  Her mother beckoned Nimue to join her in the center of the glade where all the women of their clan waited. Heart pounding with a combination of fear and pride, Nimue obeyed. Instantly, the other women encircled her and removed her gown until she was as naked as them.

  They raised their arms, chanted the ancient rites to their foremothers and gave thanks for the Goddess’ blessing upon Nimue.

  Today, her first moon time had occurred. A great blessing indeed, to take the first step on the path of womanhood when the full moon glowed in a cloudless sky. A sign that Nimue had, without doubt, been accepted and chosen by the Goddess she adored.

  This was the happiest day of her life. The proudest moment she had yet experienced. But something—something was wrong. Something had happened that had taken this moment and shattered it, destroyed it, tarnished its beauty and wonder forevermore.

  Something that had changed the course of her life and twisted the future she had always believed her birthright. Just as surely as my destined path has been irrevocably altered today.

  Jagged pain lanced through her body and the sacred grove shimmered, as if it had been plunged into a bottomless pool of glimmering water. She struggled for air, c
lawing through the grasping tendrils of fog that wrapped around her. For one tangled moment, she thought she saw a tough warrior above her, his hypnotic eyes gazing at her intently, trying to infuse her with additional strength.

  Without knowing why, she tried to reach for him but her limbs were heavy and uncoordinated. Desperately she thrashed her head from side to side, trying to escape from unseen restraints. Then, from the dark corners in her mind, a shadow walked unerringly toward her. And then it was no longer a shadow as, from nowhere, a shaft of sunlight surrounded the figure. Disbelief speared through her as, without knowing how she knew, she recognized him as one of the most powerful gods of her people.

  Gwydion, warrior magician, in all his youthful glory, smiled down at her. Terror froze her to the spot, but the god did not appear to mind her lack of reverence.

  What does Gwydion want with me? She had always given him due reverence when she worshipped the gods of Annwyn on their sacred days. But he had never shown her any preference before. She had never experienced any special affinity with him, the Greatest of the Enchanters. To her knowledge, Gwydion had never bestowed his benevolence on a female Druid nor taken one as his blessed acolyte. That he had appeared to her now was utterly terrifying.

  “Nimue, acolyte of my sister goddess Arianrhod, you are truly a chosen one.” His voice echoed in her mind, vibrating with power. She fell to her knees, holding her head, fearful her mind might collapse under the unwanted invasion. “The High Druid Aeron comes to you. Return what you have taken.”

  Nimue forced her eyes open and peered up at the magnificent, glowing god. He extended his hand toward her, uncurled his fingers and showed her what he held.

  Mesmerized, she stared at his palm. He held the shard of sacred bluestone she had taken from the magical enclave.

  * * *

  Nimue wondered at the lethargy that clung to her limbs and clouded her mind. A dull throbbing encased her shoulder and arm and her head was oddly light, as though it did not quite belong to her body.