The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  Her head had fallen back onto the pallet. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. For a moment, he couldn’t comprehend the evidence before him, but her sudden lack of response was clear enough.

  She had fallen asleep.

  Disbelief hammered through his veins, but it was muted by the lust that still thundered in his blood. She was asleep, and he was so hard he feared he might rupture.

  His fingers curled into a fist against her silken slit. Just moments longer and he would have been inside her. The thought of being clasped by her tight sheath, of her legs wrapped around his waist, of her fingernails scraping along his naked back caused streaks of agonized pleasure to burn his cock.

  But she was unconscious.

  He reared back, his breath harsh against his clenched teeth. By the gods, he was no better than his commander. No better than my father. Bitter disgust curdled his gut and he jerked her gown back over her thighs. Removing temptation from his vision.

  Except the image of her seductive nakedness was branded inside his brain.

  He flexed his fingers, and her arousal drifted in the air. Mocking his restraint. He struggled against the overpowering urge to grip his cock and find some measure of solitary satisfaction. Yet the thought of doing so while his Celt lay oblivious, felt wrong. Even if he didn’t touch her while he brought himself to climax, he couldn’t shake the feeling that to pleasure himself while she remained unaware was vulgar. As if his act of self-gratification would somehow defile her.

  Fuck the gods. He lurched to his feet and glared at her peaceful face. He was cursed with a conscience few of his peers possessed and until this moment, it had never unduly concerned him.

  But now, because of his convictions, he couldn’t wake his own slave. Couldn’t take what his body demanded. Couldn’t—wouldn’t. Was there even a difference? He was so fucking hard he couldn’t even think straight.

  He grabbed a blanket and dropped it over her, not trusting himself to touch her in case his tenuous control shattered. Then he wheeled around and saw the tent flap had been closed.

  His mood darkened further and he wrenched it open and marched outside. The legionary didn’t glance in his direction. Just as well. The way he felt right now, eye contact would be an excellent excuse for a fight.

  “No one enters.” He sounded rabid.

  “Sir.” The legionary remained looking straight ahead. But how much had he seen before the bastard had closed the tent flap?

  How dare he close the tent flap? Yet if he hadn’t, his Celt would have been on public display to any man who passed by.

  The thought fed his rage. Pressure throbbed against his temples; his balls were on fire.

  For one heart-thundering moment, he considered returning to his Celt and taking what, by law, was his.

  He turned, secured the tent, slung the legionary one last black glare before marching off. He needed to report to his commander and discover if it was, indeed, Caratacus’ queen and daughter who had been found.

  But duty was the last thing on his mind. Because all his mind could conjure up was the image of his half naked Celt writhing beneath his questing fingers.

  * * *

  “Tacitus.” The commander waved his hand in an imperious gesture for Tacitus to approach. The social meeting was being held outside the commander’s tent, to take advantage of the lingering twilight. “Come, sit down. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Blandus was already there, seated on a chair beside a table covered in unrolled documents. Tacitus sat. At least now his cursed erection had begun to diminish. It was still fucking uncomfortable, though.

  The commander sat and slung him an amused glance. Tacitus could see nothing amusing in the situation. But since it was impossible for the commander to guess the extent of or reason for Tacitus’ current frustration, clearly he was missing something vital.

  “No need to look so ferocious,” the commander said as he sat down and jerked his head so they could be served refreshments. “I agree this is barbaric and not what you’re used to. However, we’ll just have to conduct ourselves as if we were in the bathhouse.”

  A session in the bathhouse was very appealing. A good massage might well go some way to relieving the tension.

  Then again, it might not, considering the reason for his tension.

  He attempted to relax his features. Then decided it was too much effort.

  “Is the woman Caratacus’ queen?” He picked up his goblet and drank the contents in one long swallow. Then signaled for a refill.

  “She is.” Blandus sprawled back in his chair and looked smug. “A well-equipped bag of medicinal herbs and strange concoctions was found with them. Apparently they had been traveling with a healer who’d gone to collect water to tend the princess’ injuries.”

  Tacitus only just prevented himself from choking on his wine. Was his Celt a healer? Had she been traveling with Caratacus’ queen and daughter?

  No. It was sheer coincidence that he had found her by a stream so close to where the queen had been discovered.

  “Has the healer been found?” He kept his tone casual, but the glint in Blandus’ eyes told him that his cousin was fully aware of the interest behind the question.

  “Apparently not.”

  “I see.”

  It would be best if the connection—not that he believed there was a connection—between his Celt and the healer was not made. Although it made no difference now, since she was already his slave and couldn’t be punished without his approval. He didn’t want any unsavory suspicion to fall on her.

  “Today,” Blandus said, “has been very satisfactory altogether.”

  Tacitus grunted. He was feeling far from satisfied. “Good.”

  “An excellent day’s work.” The commander sounded as satisfied as his nephew. “We’ll ship his queen and daughter back to Rome. It won’t take long to hunt down Caratacus now his band of rebels have been scattered and captured.”

  “And finally,” Blandus said, “the tribes of Cambria will bow before the Eagle. The outcome of this day is going to make our careers, Tacitus.”

  “Do we know where Caratacus went to ground?”

  “Ostorius Scapula believes his only recourse is to travel into the barbarous north.” The commander glanced at one of the documents on the table, a cartography of the local area. “I’m in agreement. Our client kingdoms in Britannia are loyal to Rome. He’ll find no powerful allies there.”

  “However, due to the unpredictable behavior of the natives,” Blandus said, “it appears the remainder of my term in service will be spent in close proximity to you, uncle.” He shot Tacitus a grin that had nothing to do with their two Legions now being stationed in the same far-flung outpost of the Empire. “I hope your garrison contains all the necessary luxuries for life.”

  “Tacitus has never complained, and if ever a man indulged his son more than my brother has you, it’s Gemellus.”

  Tacitus ignored the jibe. It was scarcely a secret that his father had all but given up on siring a son before Tacitus’ birth. His numerous half-sisters attested to the fact as to how vigorously his father had worked in that area of his life.

  The consequence being—his father denied him nothing that was in his power to give.

  “In that case I won’t petition the Emperor to be relocated to a less hostile province.” Blandus shot a second lascivious grin in Tacitus’ direction. “I’m sure Tacitus and I can find some enjoyable amusement with which to entertain ourselves. It’s been a while since we’ve had the opportunity.”

  Tacitus felt a scowl threatening. Blandus would discover soon enough that Tacitus had bought the Celt solely in his own name. His cousin would be pissed. No doubt about it.

  Tough.

  “You’ll find plenty of that kind of entertainment, Blandus.” The commander then turned to Tacitus. “I heard a rumor this evening that I can scarcely believe. Did you buy one of the female slaves that were rounded up from the aftermath?”

  Tacitus�
�� fingers clenched around his goblet. He had been hoping his commander had not become aware of that fact yet. But of course he would know. It was his duty to know everything that went on in his Legion.

  “I captured her after she was injured. After the battle.” He wondered if it was worth emphasizing that the Celt had been about to surrender, but then decided that would create yet more complications. “I bought her so she could recuperate in comfort.”

  He heard Blandus give a smothered snort, but ignored him. The commander, who had been staring at him in barely concealed astonishment, relaxed back in his chair and laughed, as if Tacitus had just shared a witty jest.

  “That explains it. I knew you wouldn’t have purchased a young girl because you wanted to fuck her. Not your way, is it?” He grinned, and for a moment reminded Tacitus of how Blandus would look in another twenty-five years.

  And then he thought of the last time he’d seen his Celt. Of how close he had come to taking her while she slept. The thought caused disgust to churn his blood and finally his cursed erection fully deflated.

  The commander was still talking. For an obscure reason he now appeared to consider the Celt little more than a child. “Do you intend to have her trained in your kitchen when she is well?”

  Have her work in his kitchen? She would likely try to poison him given half a chance.

  “I haven’t decided yet.” His voice was stiff. The commander didn’t appear to take offense.

  “You’ll have to give her something to do to occupy her days. An idle slave is a liability, Tacitus. We all know that.” He stood, rolled his shoulders and frowned into the distance. “I’d better inspect the slaves captured today. Ensure they’re being held in adequate conditions.”

  As the Commander strolled off, Blandus raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Ensure there are no beautiful blonde girls there, he means.” Blandus turned to Tacitus. “Fortunately, our blonde beauty is safely ensconced in your tent.” Then he laughed. “Wait until he discovers our slave is no innocent child. And I do believe she can be as idle as she pleases during the day. She’ll certainly be kept busy enough at night.”

  Blandus’ words shouldn’t have irritated him, and yet they did.

  “Have you forgotten? She’s just had an arrow removed from her shoulder.” And still he had almost taken her. Even after Marcellus had warned him against such a thing.

  “Of course I don’t wish to inflict any more pain on her.” Blandus looked taken aback, as if Tacitus’ feral growl had been unwarranted. “But surely we can all enjoy ourselves until such time as she’s ready. By the way, how much do I owe you?”

  Tacitus stood and glared down at his cousin. “Nothing.” He said the word with relish and watched Blandus frown with incomprehension. “She belongs to me. Not us. And I have no intention of sharing.”

  With that, he marched off, in full awareness of the infuriated glower his cousin aimed at his retreating back.

  Chapter 6

  Nimue’s entire body ached. The pain from her head thudded in tandem with the throb in her shoulder, which pulsed in time with every beat of her heart. Gritting her teeth, she forced open her eyes. The light was diffused and disoriented her. She wasn’t outside. Where am I?

  It felt as if she was lying on a bed. Gingerly she turned her head and saw shadowy outlines of huge caskets and a couple of chairs. Sluggish memories crawled from the depths of her mind and panic clutched her chest, making it hard to breathe.

  What had happened to the Briton queen and her daughter? She was responsible for their safety. Responsible for returning them to Caratacus. And she had allowed herself to be captured by the enemy.

  The Roman. The arrow. Fragmented recollections stabbed through her brain, elusive and terrifying because of their very obscurity.

  Had the Romans discovered the queen’s hiding place? Or were she and the princess still waiting for the return of Nimue? Goddess, what of the princess’ injury? The pain reliever she had administered would last only a few hours.

  She shifted on the straw mattress and then froze as another thought ripped through her mind.

  Was I brutalized? Her body hurt, but was that due to having been shot or because of what had been done to her while she’d been unconscious?

  Jagged breaths clutched her breast. She had to remain calm. She had to remain in control. But the panic escalated, and the horror of what she might have endured—what she might continue to endure—hammered through her senses.

  She forced her hand along the length of her body. It was a relief to discover that, at least, she wasn’t naked. Her breasts did not hurt. Her belly was uninjured. Tentatively she pressed her fingers between her thighs and for a fleeting moment incoherent images flashed through her mind.

  Relief streaked through her. Her sex was not tender, her thighs were not sore. To the best of her knowledge, she hadn’t been raped.

  Yet something teased the outer edges of her consciousness. An elusive sensation of touch, of need. Of rampant desire threaded through with nebulous promises of passion-drenched satisfaction.

  Her fingers pressed against her lips and instantly the face of the Roman filled her vision. She could feel his mouth on hers, feel his tongue invading her, and Goddess save her, she remembered kissing him back with such wild abandon that heat flooded her body at the memory.

  But then what? Everything was dark. As if nothing further had happened.

  Stealthily, she pushed herself upright with her uninjured arm. She wouldn’t think about her wounded shoulder right now. She couldn’t afford to. Later she would attend to it, and could only hope the Romans hadn’t mutilated her beyond repair.

  A large shadow on the ground next to her caught her attention. Her heart jerked in her chest. It was the Roman. Lying on the ground. Asleep.

  For a moment she stared, bemused. Why was this arrogant Roman on the ground while she had his bed? It made no sense. Because it suggested he had considered her comfort before his own.

  And then another, equally bizarre thought filled her head. Why hadn’t he shared the bed? Why hadn’t he taken her when he’d had the chance?

  Because she certainly wouldn’t give him the chance now that she was in full possession of her senses.

  Slowly she eased back the blanket that had covered her and held her breath as she slid her legs to the edge of the makeshift bed. Perhaps she could escape while the Roman slept. Return to the queen’s hiding place and resume the journey into the land of the Brigantes.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” The voice was low, but power throbbed in every syllable. The hairs on her arms shivered in reaction to it. Although the Roman remained unmoving, he was obviously fully alert.

  “I’m going to stretch my muscles.” Her legs felt wobbly, her left arm stiff, and she needed fresh air to clear the lingering cobwebs from her mind. But as much as she wanted to push herself upright and stalk from this enclosure, she had no desire to humiliate herself by staggering on unsteady legs.

  “Are you in pain?” He sat up, and he was far too close. His masculine scent drifted in a tantalizing caress across her senses and her nipples hardened in response. She licked her dry lips, craved water for her parched throat and hoped he couldn’t hear the accelerated thud of her heart.

  “No.” Her voice was a croak. She would die before she admitted to experiencing any pain. An uneasy flutter of memory nudged at her. Had he asked her that question before? Had she responded differently before?

  “Do you need assistance?” His entire attention was focused on her. He pointed no weapon at her face but she was reminded of when he had come upon her by the mountain stream.

  Now, as then, she was trapped.

  “Certainly not.” She infused as much pride into her words as possible. “It was my shoulder your cowardly countryman shot, not my leg.” Thank Goddess. Had her leg been wounded her chances of escape would be greatly reduced.

  “Rest assured,” the Roman said, not taking his gaze from her, “he is not my coun
tryman.”

  “He fought on the side of Rome. You’re all the same to me.” And because she had the overwhelming compulsion to remain sitting, to remain talking to him, she curled her fingers into the edge of the mattress and took a deep breath.

  She would not exchange idle conversation with a Roman soldier. An officer. She had to regain her strength, discover where she’d been taken and make plans to return to the queen.

  A horrifying thought slammed through her mind. Suppose the queen and her daughter had been captured? She couldn’t leave, until she’d found out. But how was she supposed to find out when she could scarcely ask outright without arousing suspicion that she was the Druid they’d been traveling with?

  My medicine bag. She’d left it behind. The thought of her personal possessions being scrutinized by the enemy was abhorrent. A violation. All they needed to do was examine the intricate embroidery on her bag, where Arianrhod in her sacred image of an owl was depicted. It would take little effort to compare it to the engravings on her silver bracelets and torque to discover the indisputable connection to the Moon Goddess.

  If the enemy was in possession of her medicine bag would they draw the inevitable conclusion that she was the Druid they, most certainly, now sought?

  Instinctively her fingers went to her throat, but her torque was missing. Perhaps it had been stolen for its beauty and value. Yet her bracelets remained on her wrists. Again the panic twisted through her stomach and she risked shooting the Roman another glance. He continued to watch her, and in the dim light, she could not decipher his expression at all.

  If they had made the connection already, she would be in chains. She would be at the mercy of their barbaric torturers, and the arrow would have been wrenched from her shoulder with the intention of causing as much damage as possible.