The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  Where am I? Scarlet and black flickered across her vision and it was simply too much effort to open her eyes.

  And then a pinprick of awareness glowed in the welcoming embrace of oblivion.

  I have to protect the Briton queen. The memory was jagged, bright as a Druid’s blade, and sliced through her languor with a deadly knowledge. Goddess, where’s the queen?

  Unease stirred as fragmented recollections jarred her mind before coalescing into one shocking, indisputable fact.

  She had been captured.

  White fury steamed through her blood, once again obliterating the physical pain. Her body didn’t want to cooperate, but she dragged open her eyes. And saw the face of the one who had caught her so unforgivably unawares.

  Her tongue felt swollen, her throat parched. But she focused on him, drawing on what little reserves she possessed and finally, while he continued to frown down at her in apparent incomprehension, she managed to locate her voice.

  “Spineless Roman.” The words were little more than a wheeze, but she knew he heard. Knew he understood. Because his frown intensified and he looked as if he might take issue with her accusation. But she hadn’t finished yet. “How dare you drug me?” She hitched in a harsh gasp of air. “I’ll kill you for dishonoring me so.”

  He continued to glare down at her. “Why has she awoken? Can she feel anything?”

  She reached for his throat, but only her right arm appeared to belong to her, and even that did not fully obey her commands. Instead, the Roman took her hand in his, and if he had been anyone else, his touch might have been considered comforting.

  “She’s not fully conscious.” The other voice sounded unconcerned. “She won’t recall a thing, Tacitus.”

  The Roman’s large hand still held hers. A maelstrom of pain and humiliation disoriented her senses. But still she was aware of the strange tingle that attacked her trapped fingers.

  A muted sense of alarm washed through her. She attempted to pull from his clasp, but all she managed to achieve was for him to tighten his grip. But it wasn’t his arrogant possessiveness that caused her pulses to flutter or her heart to hammer against her ribs. It was the realization that his touch did not repel her.

  Raw panic kicked deep in her gut, sloughing off the lingering remnants of whatever foreign drugs they had forced into her body. What else have they forced into my body? While she had been oblivious, how many of the enemy had raped her?

  * * *

  “Can’t you give her more?” Tacitus shot Marcellus a black glare. “She’s having a seizure.”

  “No, she isn’t. She’s slipping back into unconsciousness. All she needs is some rest and then she’s all yours.”

  “Filthy…coward,” the Celt gasped, her glazed eyes locked with his. “Taking me when I could not…couldn’t defend myself…”

  “Go back to sleep.” He didn’t know if she could hear him or not. Despite Marcellus’ assurances that she spoke through the opium and neither understood the words she uttered or would recall them afterward, he had his doubts. She appeared lucid enough.

  “Slice your balls from your maggot infested crotch… Putrefy your…rancid cock…”

  With his free hand, he brushed her hair back from her face. Her eyes were losing focus and her nails were no longer gouging into his hand. There was no longer any doubt in his mind.

  She spoke through the poppy. Not because her coarse language did not befit her evident status. But because had she been fully aware of her surroundings she would never have uttered such threats to her perceived captor.

  For all she knew, it would be suicide.

  “How soon can she be moved?” He had only a tent in this temporary camp but at least it was private. And he could set a legionary on guard to ensure her continued safety. Here, in the valetudinarium, he could ensure no such thing.

  “Not before morning.”

  Tacitus finally dragged his gaze from the Celt’s unnaturally pale face and looked at his friend.

  “She’s not staying in here overnight.” And he needed to get to the quaestorium. There was no doubt in his mind he could negotiate the purchase of this Celt with the administrator. With his connections and the price he was prepared to offer, along with the fact the slave in question was injured and therefore damaged goods, the administrator would have no cause to refuse.

  Only then would she be safe from the fate that awaited every other female slave rounded up this day.

  She would also be safe from his cousin. And his commander.

  “I don’t run a brothel.” Irritation soured Marcellus’ words. “Any man found abusing one of my patients goes under the lash.”

  Not if the abuser was a fellow officer. But it was irrelevant. She was not going to stay here overnight.

  “I need to report in.” But not until he’d settled this matter. Only when the Celt legally belonged to him would he report to the commander of his Legion.

  “I’m sure you do.” It was obvious Marcellus knew exactly what Tacitus had in mind. “And in the meantime you expect me to ensure your concubine remains inviolate.”

  “She’s not my concubine.” The words were a growl. Because if she hadn’t been injured, if he had persuaded her to surrender into his protection, he had the feeling he might well have made her his concubine for the duration of their affair.

  Of course he would. It would have been the only way to ensure no other man took what he had already claimed.

  Marcellus stared at him. “You risk opening the wound if you have her tonight.”

  Tacitus had no intention of having her tonight. Irked that Marcellus felt the need to even state such an obvious warning he merely maintained eye contact until the other man shrugged in obvious irritation.

  “Go and conduct your business. I’ll ensure it’s known the slave belongs to you, and should any harm befall her, the mighty Lucius Marius Tacitus will not allow it to go unpunished.”

  The words were caustic but the pledge satisfactory. With one last fleeting glance at his Celt, Tacitus left the tent to face the unsavory task of buying her.

  Chapter 4

  Nimue hitched in a harsh breath and blackness engulfed her. A dream. A memory.

  A vision?

  Already the details were fading, becoming obscure and fluttering through her mind like petals in a summer breeze. Strong arms held her against a solid chest and now she became aware of moving.

  She was being carried. Instantly her eyes flew open, only to be confronted by an expanse of white tunic stretched across impressive shoulders. The Roman. Jumbled images cascaded across her mind. They had spoken by the stream. She had been shot. And then…

  Then what? The uncanny sensation of urgency, of needing to accomplish something of utmost importance gnawed the edges of her mind. She could almost recall and yet the details eluded her. And what was worse, she almost did not care. Her senses were pleasantly numbed.

  She shifted and tried to see his face, but his hold on her was so secure she could scarcely move at all.

  “Be still.” His deep voice rumbled in his chest and caused tremors to flutter deep in her womb. “We’re almost at my quarters. Then you can rest.”

  “Rest.” Her voice sounded strange to her ears. Only then did she realize his hand grazed the curve of her breast as he held her against his body. She should have been enraged. But instead, heat radiated from the contact, spreading across her skin and tightening her nipple until the ache consumed her entire body.

  She groaned, eyelids fluttering. She wanted his hand cradling her breast, his thumb circling her throbbing nipple. It was more than a want. It was an overriding need.

  Her left arm was immobilized, and so she dragged her right arm up from where it nestled between the length of her body and the Roman’s. Goddess, if she didn’t know better, she would imagine he was a fearless warrior. For surely only a warrior could possess a body so irresistibly hard and sculpted.

  She flattened her knuckles against the soft linen of his tunic, unc
aring of the fabric. Wanting only to caress the heat of his naked flesh. Vaguely she wondered at his lack of armor. Not that it mattered. She didn’t want his armor coming between them.

  With a sigh, she nuzzled her face against his shoulder and ripples of lust rolled low in her belly. Pleasurable and somehow illicit although she couldn’t quite fathom why that should be so.

  “Will you be resting with me?” Her voice still sounded odd, as if her tongue could not quite articulate the words. The back of her hand grazed his throat and she felt him swallow, the action impossibly arousing.

  “No.”

  Languidly she brushed her fingers over the uncompromising line of his jaw. He was rough, and chafed her skin. Entranced, she rubbed her hand along his jaw again, and again the roughness caused tingles of desire to dance through her blood.

  “Why not?” If only she could see his face properly. From recollection, his face was worth looking at. She was sure his body was too.

  “Because I’m on duty.” For a fleeting moment, he glanced down at her, and the blatant lust glowing in his eyes caused raw need to bloom deep between her thighs.

  Her lips parted, but it didn’t help her deprived lungs because every jagged breath held a subtle hint of foreign spices that fogged her reason and heightened her desire. Tendrils of fire wove through her blood, curled around her nipples and flickered with sensuous intent through her quivering sheath. He wouldn’t chose duty above her when she craved for his touch on her burning skin. When she ached to be filled by his tongue and his cock.

  The image pounded against her temples and again she moaned. She imagined him spreading her thighs and impaling his length inside her wet folds. If he didn’t take her soon she would shatter from unfulfilled need.

  “Are you in pain?” Once again he was looking straight ahead. She turned her wrist and dug her nails into his face, and satisfaction spiked when once again his gaze clashed with hers.

  “Yes.”

  His gaze didn’t waver. “When you’re settled, I will administer more opium.”

  Opium. The word drifted through her mind, but failed to grasp hold. It was unimportant. All that mattered was that this hard, rough-jawed warrior stripped her naked and took her until the raw, primitive need hammering through her veins was sated.

  “When we’re settled,” she dragged in a rasping breath as he paused, “you will administer to me.”

  * * *

  Jaw rigid, Tacitus entered his tent. The flap remained opened to give him light, but unfortunately, it also ensured little privacy. Not that the legionary stationed outside would dare breathe a word of what he might overhear, but right now that didn’t give Tacitus much comfort.

  “I’m going to lay you down.” But instead of following through, he remained staring at her upturned face, at her drug-hazed eyes and her seductive smile. Her left arm, wrapped in a sling, rested across her waist. Her right hand, that had been pressed between their bodies, now cradled his jaw and her tempting body curved against him, as if she didn’t find him repulsive in the least.

  His cock thickened, balls tightened. Gods, how easy it would be to lay her down and take what she so unknowingly offered. He knew her inhibitions were lowered and no longer did she see him as her enemy. She saw only a man she wanted.

  A man the opium wanted.

  Breath hissed between his clenched teeth. It was the opium talking. He knew that. But he couldn’t drag his gaze from her. Couldn’t summon the strength to sever their connection.

  The tip of her tongue slid over her lips. He ached to taste those lips, to plunder her mouth, to thrust so deep inside her welcoming cleft she screamed out his name.

  She didn’t even know his name.

  “Yes.” Her voice was a breathy whisper. “And then I can watch you strip. I long to see your naked body, to hold your cock and cradle your balls in the palm of my hand.”

  Her drug-induced promises incinerated his senses. Gods, no woman had ever uttered such words to him. No woman would have dared. Even this one would not, had she been in full possession of her mind.

  But still they thundered through his blood. Pounded against his temples. The image was carved into his brain, of her on her knees, holding him. Cradling him. Scrutinizing him.

  It was headier than the most expensive aphrodisiac from the East. Headier than opium? The thought barely registered. Because all that registered was the woman in his arms, offering herself to him.

  Chapter 5

  Still holding her in his arms Tacitus lowered his head toward her, no longer caring of the open tent flap, the proximity of the legionary or the fact he was still on duty. All he could see, all he could feel was the woman nestled so seductively against his chest, her breasts pressed against him while her palm caressed his jaw.

  Her lips parted and her breath was sweet, like incense. Blood pounded, pulses hammered yet with rigid restraint, he brushed the most chaste of kisses across those tempting lips.

  So soft. So full of promise. So deliciously responsive. She lifted her head and instead of breaking contact, he captured her lips once again. Nothing chaste about this kiss. Their mouths clung together as if nothing else in the world existed.

  She wound her hand around the nape of his neck. Her fingers speared through his hair, scraping across the base of his skull. Desire spiked through his groin, her touch as potent as if she had grasped his cock, and restraint splintered.

  He slid his tongue inside her open mouth and she sucked on him, sudden and hard and unbelievably shocking. He withdrew, a slow slide against her wet flesh then thrust into her again, teasing the roof of her mouth, and claimed the strangled moans that vibrated from her throat.

  Fingernails dug into his scalp, primitive and wild. His hand closed over the mound of her breast, filling his palm. Her nipple was hard through the material of her gown, and with a primal growl, he rubbed the tips of his fingers over the erect nub. Backward and forward. Increasing the pressure. She squirmed in his arms, her muffled moans of pleasure stoking his need.

  He needed to lay her down. Rip off her gown. Explore her writhing body.

  The exhilarating vision of her laying naked on his bed hammered in his mind. She was willing. She did not know she was a slave. He could fuck her, make her come, give her such pleasure that when she discovered the truth she wouldn’t feel as if she had been used at all.

  Her sweet taste slid insidiously into his senses, heady and somehow illicit. The tips of their tongues touched, and it was mindlessly erotic.

  Somehow, he stumbled to the bed. Curse this primitive camp. He wanted his own bed, but this makeshift one would have to do. Carefully he lowered her, his mouth still claiming hers—or was she claiming his?—and as he laid her down the light diminished.

  He scarcely noticed. Tearing his mouth from her, he panted down into her face, relishing the jagged gasps of her breath, the way her fingers dug into the back of his neck, the way her breasts heaved beneath her soft gown.

  The way her left arm was immobilized in a sling.

  For a moment he stared, uncomprehending. She was injured and he had been about to fuck her?

  “Roman.” The word was scarcely above a whisper, and wrapped around his reeling senses like a seductive embrace of purest silk. Her right hand slid from his neck, over his shoulder and along his arm. It was a light caress and yet as arousing as if she slid her naked body along him instead.

  Gods. What was he thinking? Marcellus had warned him not to have her tonight. She was injured. She was under the influence of opium.

  She was his slave.

  He couldn’t move. He remained kneeling on the floor beside her as her hand curled around his wrist. The light was oddly dimmed and yet he could see her delicate features and the fragile outline of her enticing body. And still he could not find the strength of will to stand up and leave.

  “Are you man enough for me, Roman?” Her words were heated, provocative. A blatant challenge. “I’ve never had a barbarian before.” She smiled, as if that thought
gave her great amusement and he battled against the renewed lust that thundered through his blood at her taunts.

  “You will lie here and rest.” It was an order. Any other woman—any other man—would have instantly quailed. But this Celt, this slave—who didn’t even know she was a slave—merely offered him another sultry smile and pulled on his hand.

  He didn’t resist.

  She dragged his hand between her thighs and pressed him against her slick core. Air hissed between his clenched teeth as her feminine dampness caressed his fingers, as she rolled her hips and a breathy sigh escaped her lips.

  “Don’t you want me, Roman?” She increased pressure on his hand and of their own volition his fingers pushed against her soft gown, seeking and finding the wet opening of her welcoming pussy.

  Primal need thudded through his veins and tightened his rock-hard balls. This was madness. Feverishly his fingers bunched up her gown, exposing her thighs, until he gripped the material and wrenched it up to her waist.

  Honey-blonde curls crowned her glistening lips, her flesh plump and pink and deliriously tantalizing. Mesmerized by the sheer eroticism of how she angled her hips toward him and by her evocative scent that caused his cock to thicken, he couldn’t remember why taking her was such a bad idea.

  He trailed the tips of his fingers over her stomach and then lower, teasing her soft curls. She sighed in evident pleasure and collapsed back onto the pallet as if she no longer possessed the strength to entice him. But he needed no additional enticement. Everything he needed was here, between her spread thighs.

  She was wet and hot. His finger slid along her cleft, her soft folds promising a wild, unforgettable ride. Breath rasped along his throat, need pounded through his groin, sanity sank beyond the fiery horizon.

  She was willing. She was ready. And she was his.

  The final thought pounded with primitive possessiveness through his mind, through his soul. She was his and no other man had the right to touch her. No other man had the right to look at her naked body, breathe her heady scent, or hear her gasps of impending climax. Somehow, he dragged his gaze from her desire-swollen lips, up the length of her prone body, expecting to see her watching him.