The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

It was hard to remember why she was so furious with him, why she should resist the fiery attraction that sizzled between them.

  “No man owns me.” It sounded like an invitation to prove her wrong. Goddess, were her senses still enslaved to the foreign drug? But she knew they weren’t. And yet she couldn’t summon the strength to shove him aside.

  “No other man owns you.” His voice was raw, his words primitive. She tried for indignation and failed. Because a despicable part of her still craved this man.

  Slowly her hand slid up to his shoulder. His powerful muscles flexed beneath her questing fingers, sending primal need shuddering through her blood. All the reasons why this was so wrong splintered and scattered to the winds. Because right now all she could think was how it would feel to be held in his arms, crushed against his body and succumb to the flames licking the slick folds of her pussy.

  “Tacitus. You decent?” The disembodied voice shattered the sensual cocoon as effectively as if she had been plunged into an icy mountain stream. She jerked her hand from the Roman’s shoulder and sent him the blackest glare she could dredge up from her disgusted soul.

  He—Tacitus?—scowled down at her as if the interruption could not have come at a worse time. She tilted her head very slightly to the side, an unspoken demand, and he slowly, with obvious reluctance, released her throat from his imprisoning grip.

  He stalked to the side of the enclosure—now that she was fully awake she could see it was a tent—and ripped open the flap. Sunlight streamed in, and Nimue squinted as a huge dark shadow entered.

  “Marcellus.” Tacitus sounded rabid. “It’s not like you to make house calls on your patients.”

  The other Roman grinned. “With what you paid me, my friend, the extra service is all inclusive.”

  Nimue shot Tacitus a startled glance. He had paid for her treatment? Why would he do that? It was one thing to ensure her injury was tended to, even though she couldn’t fathom his motives. But it hadn’t occurred to her that he had paid a healer to administer to her wound.

  Her unease spiked and suspicion raked through her. So he had paid for her treatment. He’d better not assume she owed him anything in return. Irritably she twisted one of her bracelets around her immobilized wrist. It was obvious her personal wealth was of little interest to him, otherwise he would have stripped the jewelry from her while she slept. But it was all she had to offer in payment since her dagger had vanished and her bow— Goddess, I left my bow with the queen.

  Her mission slammed through her brain, obliterating the irritation beneath a wave of crippling guilt. She had to focus. Had to discover the fate of the queen. And who better to sound out for information than this healer?

  “She appears to be recovering.” Tacitus sounded as if the prognosis did not especially please him, and Nimue’s pledge to think only of the queen and princess, and not about a certain Roman officer, fractured.

  Who was he, to tell the healer whether she was recovering or not?

  “My shoulder,” she said in Latin, in case the other Roman was ignorant of her language. “What exactly did you do after removing the arrowhead?”

  Both men turned to stare at her, as though she had suddenly grown wings or sprouted a second head. She stiffened her spine and stared right back. She was the injured one here. Why did they look so astonished that she wished to know the extent of damage they’d caused her?

  The healer, Marcellus, looked at Tacitus as if requesting permission that he might speak directly to her. But that made no sense. She’d heard many rumors about life under the Romans, but she had never come across anything that suggested a man could not speak freely with an unattached, non-Roman woman.

  Tacitus, in the process of lighting a lantern, gave the barest jerk of his head, apparently bestowing such permission. Unease compressed Nimue’s gut. She had tried not to face the obvious, but clearly she was this Roman’s prisoner. And because of his rank, he had somehow managed to keep her from wherever prisoners were usually kept.

  The resentment bubbled, dark and corroding. Until yesterday, she had never seriously considered she might be captured by the enemy. Killed by them, certainly. But her mind had shied short of actual capture, because capture equaled torture and ultimate crucifixion because of her heritage.

  But only if they discovered her heritage.

  Her head began to ache.

  “I cleaned the wound and stitched it.” The healer smiled at her in what she could only assume he believed to be a reassuring manner. She ignored it.

  “What did you clean it with?” As yet, although her shoulder hurt it didn’t feel as if it was putrefying from the inside out. She could only hope these barbarians knew more medical aid than rumor suggested.

  “Vinegar.”

  Startled by the knowledge this Roman used the same method for cleansing wounds as her own people, she was momentarily silenced. Perhaps her shoulder would make a full recovery, after all.

  “Now,” Marcellus said, once again glancing at Tacitus. “Do I have permission to inspect my handiwork?”

  “You do,” she said quickly, before Tacitus could respond. He merely glowered at her and folded his arms, and before she could stop herself, she glanced at his groin.

  Oh yes. He was still massively aroused and she hoped he was in grave discomfort because of it.

  She certainly was.

  The treacherous thought slid through her mind, and she gritted her teeth. It didn’t help knowing that, had Marcellus not arrived when he had, she would likely have succumbed to the lust surging through her veins.

  The thought was revolting. Even if her cursed body disagreed.

  “Please, sit.” The healer indicated the chair she had recently vacated and since he had asked, and not commanded, she sat. He examined the back of her head and then proceeded to remove the sling and unbind her arm. As he reached her shoulder she held her breath, and despite all her training her stomach pitched with nerves at what she might see once the last dressing was removed.

  Romans were butchers. Everyone knew that. Perhaps, despite her best intentions, something on her face showed her fear because Tacitus suddenly loomed over them.

  “There’s no need to look.” His frown had intensified. “Avert your eyes.”

  Despite his demanding tone, he sounded concerned. Did he imagine she might faint at the sight of her mutilated flesh? She offered him a pained smile.

  “There’s every need to look, Tacitus. How else will I see what damage I’ve sustained?”

  Tacitus stared as if she had just uttered something completely incomprehensible. Even Marcellus paused in his ministrations and looked at her as though he couldn’t decide whether he was shocked or wanted to laugh.

  “What?” She transferred her glare from Marcellus back to Tacitus before once again looking at her shoulder as the healer removed the dressing.

  “Nothing,” Marcellus said, and from the tone of his voice, it appeared amusement had won over shock. “Isn’t that right, Tacitus?”

  Tacitus grunted, whether in agreement or not she couldn’t decipher. Why they should think it so extraordinary she had deduced his name from their conversation she couldn’t imagine. If that was the reason.

  Her breath escaped in a relieved gasp. The wound was not fiery red or weeping yellow pus. It was a surprisingly small puncture between her collarbone and armpit and the stitches astonishingly neat. She leaned down and sniffed. And smelt only the faintest tinge of astringent.

  “Curse the gods.” Tacitus glared at her shoulder as if it mortally offended him. “Fucking Gallian.”

  “Who has been punished for his lack of foresight.”

  Was she imagining that slight censure in the healer’s voice?

  Carefully she prodded her shoulder. The arrow hadn’t penetrated right through, thank Goddess, otherwise her arm would be useless for moons. It appeared the sleeveless leather shirt, which her mother had always insisted she wore in battle, had saved her from far more serious an injury.

  He
r mother. Whenever she thought of her, a shaft of pain speared through Nimue’s heart. A wretched maelstrom of strangled love, despairing guilt and an overwhelming sense of loss and betrayal.

  “Are you in much discomfort?” Marcellus pulled up the other chair and sat, his attention fully on her. “I can administer more opium if you require.”

  And risk losing her senses once again?

  “I don’t require any more of your drugs.” But even as she spoke, a flicker of intangible awareness vibrated through her soul.

  I need the opium.

  The thought pierced her brain and she instantly tried to smother it. She didn’t want the drug. She would have to be dead or at the very least unconscious before she’d allow them to fill her with their heathen potions again.

  Yet the feeling persisted. She needed the opium.

  “At least—not at this moment.” Goddess, what had possessed her to say that? She clamped her teeth together before any other unwary word escaped.

  “I still have the opium you gave me yesterday,” Tacitus said. “She didn’t need any during the night.”

  “Good.” Marcellus sounded faintly surprised, as if he had expected her to welcome his brain-numbing potions with open arms. Skeletal fingers trailed from the base of her skull and along the length of her spine. And once again, the overwhelming compunction to demand more opium pounded in her mind.

  What was wrong with her? The more she craved it, the more she would resist. She would never be able to discover the fate of the queen and escape this Roman if her mind was forever fogged by erotic dreams and…

  And something else, something of utmost importance; something she could almost recall if only the veil in her mind would lift.

  The healer redressed her wound, all the while telling her how she had to rest her arm and not put undue strain on her shoulder. She didn’t bother telling him she had no intention of allowing her muscles to become soft and useless by such coddling. Was this the advice he gave his Roman patients?

  Her irritated thoughts reminded her of something she shouldn’t have forgotten in the first place.

  “Have you tended many Celtic casualties?” She hoped her voice didn’t betray the urgency of her question. “Women and children?”

  Marcellus glanced up at her, a guarded look in his eyes.

  “There were not—”

  “Have you finished?” Tacitus’ impatient voice cut through the healer’s and Marcellus straightened. Nimue pressed her lips together as the moment of possible illumination shattered before her eyes.

  “Yes. The wound is healing satisfactorily. There’s no hint of corruption. But don’t hesitate to come and see me again if you’re at all concerned.”

  Nimue pushed herself to her feet. The healer’s words offered her no comfort because what had he been about to say? That there had been no other Celtic casualties? Because all the Romans had left were fatalities?

  Did that mean all the children who had been hiding in the mountains had been slaughtered by the enemy, or that they had escaped into the surrounding forests?

  “You’ve treated no injured children?”

  “Be silent.” Tacitus rounded on her with such ferocity she actually recoiled. Was he speaking to her? No one had ever spoken to her in such a manner before. No one would dare speak to her in such a manner. But in the fleeting moment that her senses reeled, Tacitus virtually ejected Marcellus from the tent. “Repeat nothing.”

  Far from looking offended, Marcellus shot her a calculating glance before tossing Tacitus a grin.

  “There’s nothing to repeat, my friend. But may Fortuna smile upon you because by Mars, I believe you’re going to need her.”

  Chapter 9

  Tacitus scowled at his friend’s retreating back before ensuring that the legionary guarding the tent was far enough away so as not to have overheard the conversation.

  Then he yanked down the flap and turned to face his Celt.

  She was looking at him as if he was a plague-ridden leper.

  “And why shouldn’t I know of my countrymen’s fate?” Her voice was haughty. “Would you be silent in my place?”

  He’d expected her to rant in fury at his command, not coldly question him. He wasn’t used to people questioning his commands and, for the life of him, he couldn’t recall a single instance when a woman had.

  There was a time and place to be entertained by this barbaric Celt’s behavior and now, when he needed to be by his commander’s side, was neither.

  “I’m not in your place, and the likelihood of my ever being so is remote.” He wrenched off his tunic and tossed it onto the pallet he’d tried to sleep on last night. “Therefore your question is redundant.”

  When she didn’t immediately respond he shot her an irritated glance and saw how she stared, riveted, at his erect cock. The look on her face was a heady combination of shocked disbelief and blatant lust.

  He gritted his teeth and grabbed his clean tunic that lay across the top of his casket. He was in need of a fuck, a bath and a long, relaxing massage but the most he could look forward to today was, most likely, supervising the dismantling of this camp.

  “My questions,” her voice was husky and only when the linen covered him did she drag her gaze up to his face, “are deserving of answers.” The tip of her tongue moistened her lips. “You have no right to deny me such knowledge.”

  In the process of swinging his cloak over his shoulders, he slung her a disbelieving glance. True, he didn’t want her to behave like a slave. But gods, did she really have no idea when she should hold her tongue? No woman of his acquaintance was so insistent on having the last word once a man had made himself clear.

  “I don’t have time to pander to your whims.” He fixed his fibula to his shoulder. “Remain here. I’ll have food sent to you, and water so you can wash.” Cursed inconvenient none of his personal servants were here. But back at the garrison, he could ensure she was looked after properly in his absence.

  She let out a surprisingly loud hiss.

  “You’re doing it again. Stop giving me orders. And if you refuse to answer my questions then tell me that. Don’t pretend my concerns are mere whims.” She spat the word as if it offended her.

  It probably did.

  He realized he was staring at her when, slave or not, he should be telling her—once again—to be silent.

  Only this time she didn’t need to remain silent for her safety. This time she needed to be silent because…

  Because she talked too much. He’d never met a woman who talked as much as she did. At least, not one that talked of such things that continually irked and astounded him.

  It had been different by the mountain stream when sexual awareness had sizzled in the air and he’d been so certain of having her. It had been blatantly erotic, early this morn, when she had openly defied him. Yet even then she’d continued to push beyond acceptable boundaries and she was doing it again.

  “I refuse to answer your questions.” He waited for her exclamation of outrage, but it didn’t come. She just glowered at him. His balls ached, his cock throbbed and frustration thundered through his veins. “For your own safety you’ll remain here. If you’re hungry, you will eat the food I provide. And if you have any self-respect,” he emphasized the words with heavy sarcasm, “you’ll use the water to wash the filth from your body.”

  He watched the mortified blush spread over her cheeks, as if she understood the full intent of his barbed remark. His scowl deepened when a stab of regret pierced his conscience. Gods, as if it mattered whether he had injured her feelings or not, so long as she cleaned herself up?

  “And if I am to remain here, how am I to relieve myself?” Despite the way he had just intentionally insulted her, pride spiked her words. Somehow that made him feel even worse.

  It took him a moment to understand her meaning. And then he was the one who felt heat crawling up his face.

  By the gods. He’d never spoken of such intimacies before. It wasn’t something he
wished to experience again, either.

  He had no intention of allowing her to use the latrines. Not even if he accompanied her to ensure no other legionary entered while she was…relieving herself.

  “I’ll have a bucket brought for you.”

  “A bucket?” She sounded as if she had never heard of such an item. Except the look of horrified disgust on her face assured him she knew exactly what a bucket was and the thought of using it filled her with revulsion.

  “I’ll return later.” He turned to leave, then hesitated. “If you need anything, ask the legionary on duty outside.” He’d give instructions that the Celt’s wishes were to be relayed to him instantly. “But don’t attempt to engage him in conversation.”

  “Why would I want to engage a filthy Roman in conversation?” Her voice was belligerent and there was a proud tilt to her chin. But as she folded her arms, her hand cradled the elbow of her injured arm and that single gesture tore through his chest.

  In spite of her brave words, she was a vulnerable woman. Little more than a girl. Although she was here with him, although she belonged to him, this was not how he had imagined it when he’d come across her on the mountain.

  But this was the reality. When she was in a more accommodating frame of mind—when they were back at the garrison and he’d had time to make the necessary arrangements—he’d tell her she was his concubine. And he could wipe the unsavory fact that he had purchased her from his mind.

  “No reason.” He preferred she spoke to no one. Then no one could inadvertently betray her status. His mind lingered on his recent thoughts and although he was perilously close to being late for his meeting with the commander he couldn’t help himself. “How old are you?”

  For a moment, he didn’t think she was going to answer. Then she let out a long sigh.

  “This is my twenty-second summer.”

  He barely hid his surprise. She was older than he’d imagined, scarcely two years younger than he was.

  “Well?” She sounded irked by his continued silence. “How old are you, Tacitus?”

  For the second time that morning, her use of his personal name stunned him. Of course, once she was his concubine he intended she would call him that, but it was a privilege not something anyone could refer to him by.