The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  Certainly not a slave. It was a wonder Marcellus hadn’t remarked upon it.

  “You have me at a disadvantage.” There was no reason to make an issue of it. No one would know but Marcellus, and his friend would repeat nothing of what had occurred during the course of his house call. “I don’t yet know your name.”

  “Oh.” She sounded scathing. “I believe we’re even, Roman, since I know your name and you know my age.”

  Why couldn’t she answer a simple, civilized question? And why was he standing here conversing with her when his commander waited?

  “If you prefer I can give you a new name. A Roman name.” Not that he truly intended to. It was too closely entwined with ownership and slavery. “I’ve no intention of referring to you as Celt for the remainder of our liaison.”

  Her lips thinned in clear annoyance. Whether it was the threat of him renaming her or the fact he intended for them to enjoy a liaison, he wasn’t sure.

  “You may address me as Nimue.” She sounded as though she conferred a great honor.

  “Nimue.” It was an unusual name, like nothing he had heard before. But since Nimue herself was like no other woman he’d ever encountered, her name suited her perfectly. “I like it.”

  If he expected a positive response to his remark, he should have known better. She shrugged her good shoulder and gave him a look that suggested he had just crawled from beneath a steaming pile of manure.

  “It’s the only name I’ll answer to.”

  And then, as if she were an empress and he a lowly plebeian, she turned her back on him.

  * * *

  Tacitus was still seething with unrequited lust and justifiable fury at Nimue’s insolence when he arrived at his commander’s tent. His temper didn’t improve when he saw Blandus was already there.

  Why the fuck wasn’t he with his own commander?

  “We’re leaving today,” the commander said without preamble. “Inform the centurions.”

  “Very well.” Tacitus glanced at his cousin. “Shouldn’t you be with Ostorius Scapula?”

  “Already received my orders for the day.” Blandus fingered the hilt of his sword. “Two of our cohorts are to remain behind and scour the countryside for any stragglers. I doubt they’ll find Caratacus but who can say? We picked up one of his brothers at first light this morning.”

  Tacitus jerked his head. “If that’s all, I’ll give the Primus his orders.” He needed to work off some of this excess energy. Keep his mind occupied so Nimue’s haughty face didn’t incessantly intrude.

  Gods. He’d not envisaged she would be so hard to please once she’d regained her senses. All he needed was for her to accept the desire that burned between them. Why was that so hard? He knew, as surely as he knew he had only three more months left to serve in the Legions, that once he’d had her, this frenzied need in his blood would abate.

  Then he could enjoy her barbed tongue and seductive body at nights, and forget about her during the days.

  “So, Tacitus…” Blandus’ smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Is the reason you’re so late this morning due to that delectable little slave you purchased yesterday?”

  “What, the child?” The commander glanced up from the scrolls he was scrutinizing to frown at Tacitus.

  “Hardly a child, my esteemed uncle.” Blandus gave a mirthless laugh. “She certainly tempted my noble cousin to forsake his mighty principles. Although the glower on your face, Tacitus, suggests she wasn’t as accommodating as you supposed.”

  “The Celt,” for some reason he didn’t feel disposed to tell Blandus her name, “is still recovering from her injury.”

  “She was shot in the shoulder, not between her thighs. I’m sure she’s more than able to spread her legs with suitable encouragement.”

  “And that,” Tacitus said, hanging onto his temper by the slenderest of threads, “is something only I will ever know.”

  “By Mars.” Amusement lurked in the commander’s tone. “Aren’t you boys too old to be fighting over your female entertainment?”

  “There’s nothing to fight over.” Tacitus flexed his fingers and maintained eye contact with his now-scowling cousin. “The woman is mine. No discussion.”

  The commander slapped him on the shoulder. “She must be quite something, Tacitus. I look forward to making her acquaintance.”

  Chapter 10

  Using the bucket had been one of the most degrading experiences of Nimue’s life, but that was before a hated auxiliary of the enemy arrived to remove the offending object. She stood, rigid with mortification, as two more auxiliaries brought in a small tub and more buckets of hot water.

  None of the auxiliaries said a word to her. They didn’t even make eye contact. She might have been invisible for all the notice they took of her. When she was once again alone she released a ragged breath and using one finger pulled open a crack in the flap of the tent.

  A legionary was stationed outside. Other tents were opposite and the entire area was a seething hive of activity. Beyond, in the distance, was the mountain where her people had been so disastrously led by the Briton king’s vision of victory.

  She had no chance of slipping out unnoticed. And even if she did, where would she go? She still hadn’t discovered whether or not the queen had been captured.

  Hugging her aching arm she glared with resentment at the buckets of water and assortment of what she could only imagine were cleansing lotions. It was humiliating enough to face the fact she was a prisoner, without having the additional fact thrown in her face that she stank.

  The childish desire to tip the cursed water over the floor assailed her. Except she was certain such action wouldn’t gain her access to a stream. She was torn between the desire to feel clean again and acidic indignation at having a Roman bark orders at her as if she were a stray dog. Her glance snagged on the large casket she’d noticed earlier that morn and upon which an auxiliary had left a plate of strange, foreign food.

  Her heart hammered in sudden excitement. Perhaps Tacitus had stowed her dagger there? She felt naked, horribly vulnerable without it, and although she was under no illusion that her dagger could grant her safe passage from this heathen camp, at least it would afford her a sense of personal security.

  The casket was locked. Of course it would be. She scrutinized the lock and a grim smile twisted her lips. This mechanism was familiar to her. Her mother had owned a Roman crafted casket with such a lock. But not only that. Her mother had taught her how to open such locks without benefit of a Roman key.

  She slid her earring out of her lobe, straightened the silver spike as best she could and inserted it into the keyhole. Several painstaking moments later, the mechanism clicked open.

  She dropped her earring onto her lap and picked up the plate. After she placed it back on the ground, she attempted to lift the solid timber lid with one hand. It was too heavy from that angle. She pushed herself to her feet. It was only her shoulder that was injured, yet it affected her entire body.

  She braced her thigh against the side of the casket and this time when she tried to lift the lid, it swung open. A timber box lay on top of purple-striped linen, filled with silver and gold brooches. They were encrusted with precious gems, and looked similar to the one Tacitus had used on his cloak just now. She glanced over her shoulder, but the tent flap was still secured. She had to hurry. There was no telling how soon the Roman might return. The last thing she wanted was for him to discover her rifling through his possessions.

  Holding her breath, she knelt, slid her hand into the side of the casket and spread her fingers. She could feel nothing but soft linen. Perhaps her dagger was hidden beneath the layers of clothing instead of down the side of the casket. She lifted the top garment.

  Her fingers stilled and she stared, unbelieving, at her medicine bag.

  Arianrhod save me. All her desperate hopes that somehow the queen and princess remained safely hidden fled.

  They were not safe. They had been captured. How else wou
ld her bag be here? She’d left it with them when she’d gone to find water. Her fingers crushed the embroidered handles as indecision seared her breast.

  Where were they? In another Roman officer’s tent? Was that the way Romans secured their valuable prisoners?

  But while Caratacus’ queen was certainly valuable, of what value was she? As a Druid they might, possibly, want to postpone her execution until they returned to the Roman fortification. That way they could ensure a significant crowd might watch her torturous death by crucifixion. But she was certain they didn’t know of her heritage. If they did, they wouldn’t have wasted their time by treating her injury.

  With difficulty, she unhooked her fingers from her bag. It was clear it had been emptied of all its contents. And it was equally clear of what value Tacitus placed on her.

  He wanted to fuck her. It was as simple as that. Why he hadn’t already, she could not quite comprehend, especially after her discovery that he’d paid for her treatment. But it didn’t change what she knew.

  Biting her lip she continued to search through the casket, but it was a halfhearted effort since she knew she wouldn’t find her dagger. The only items that might be used as weapons were the pins in the brooches. She took one final look at her bag, traced her finger over the embroidered image of the owl and then covered it with the linen and closed the lid.

  She leaned back against the casket, feeling desperately fatigued. Even if a chance presented itself, she couldn’t escape. She’d have to stay until she had worked out a plan of rescue.

  And for that, she first needed to discover where the queen and princess were being held.

  Wearily, she looked back at the steaming water. Part of her wanted to flaunt her bloodied and filthy state at Tacitus. But another part, entwined with feminine pride and her perilously fragile self-respect, balked at the notion.

  Gritting her teeth, she shuffled on her knees across the ground, rescuing her torque on the way. Her belt was laying on a chair—removed from her while she was unconscious—and with some difficulty she managed to squeeze the torque into one of the leather pouches attached to it. Tacitus might have stolen her dagger but he hadn’t appeared to have taken any other personal possession. Somehow, the knowledge irked her.

  Laboriously, she cleansed her body as best she could and then started on her hair. It became progressively harder to breathe, as if all the air was being sucked out of the tent, and her heart pounded an erratic staccato against her ribs.

  She screwed her eyes shut, then opened them. But the light continued to diminish, as though she entered an avenue of massive oaks that hid the sun from view. Her vision spun and stomach pitched and, with a detached sense of disbelief, she felt tears prick her eyes.

  But she never cried. She hadn’t even cried when her mother…

  The thought hovered, unformed, yet it haunted the darkest recesses of her mind. She wouldn’t think of her mother. Not now. But even as she struggled to focus, to finish rinsing her hair, the darkness swallowed up the interior of the tent and invaded her senses and with a sigh of exhaustion, she sank into oblivion.

  * * *

  It was the seventh hour before Tacitus had time to check on his Celt. Since leaving her five hours ago, his anger had mellowed and, while it was highly unorthodox, he decided to share the late midday meal with her. She’d likely be hungry again. It had been four hours since he’d instructed food to be sent to her.

  As he marched back to his quarters, an auxiliary following laden down with the more appetizing rations on offer, he hoped she was in a more agreeable mood. Even as the thought formed, amusement flashed through him. Who else of his acquaintance would consider, let alone hope, that his slave’s mood might be agreeable?

  The legionary snapped to attention at his approach and pulled back the flap of the tent. Tacitus entered and instead of being greeted by caustic words or even a frosty silence, Nimue lay crumpled on the ground next to the bathtub.

  And she was naked.

  With a livid curse, he unclasped his fibula, swung the cloak from his shoulders and covered her chilled body.

  “Get out.” He shot the auxiliary a deadly glare, and the man placed the basket of food on the casket and left as if nothing was untoward. As soon as he was alone, Tacitus knelt by Nimue’s side. If anyone had dared touched her, he would have them flogged to within an inch of their miserable existence. For one torturous moment, the face of his commander flashed into his brain. But the commander would never take what belonged to another. “Nimue, can you hear me?”

  She shivered, and snuggled farther into his cloak as if the warmth comforted her. Her hair was unbound, tangled about her face, and disappeared beneath his cloak. But in that brief moment before he’d covered her, he’d seen how it curled in glorious abandonment to her waist.

  He reached for her, before recalling her injury. With difficulty, he maneuvered her into his arms without placing undue pressure on her shoulder. Only as he lifted her did he catch sight of the untouched plate of food lying on the ground next to his casket.

  No wonder she’d fainted. She hadn’t eaten.

  Carefully, he lowered her to the bed. Her eyelashes flickered and she looked up at him and in that unguarded moment, he recognized a rare glimpse of utter trust.

  It stabbed through his chest, as tangible as a dagger.

  “Tacitus.” Her voice was husky from sleep, undeniably alluring. He knew he should rise from his knees, sit on the edge of the bed, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to risk the possibility of shattering this moment.

  No one would ever know that he knelt by her side.

  He offered her a drink from his own water skin and she gulped inelegantly, clearly parched. “You didn’t eat.” It was a gentle admonishment. Yet she had washed. And by so doing, had exhausted her fragile resources.

  He should have returned earlier. How long had she lain on the ground, unaware and exposed?

  A slow frown crinkled her brow, as she attempted to process his words.

  “I don’t know what happened.” Her frown intensified, and he saw the precise moment when her vulnerability hit her and wariness replaced the trust. He tried not to care. What did it matter? And yet, somehow, it did. “There must be a residue of your heathen drug still in my blood.”

  It was possible, but he doubted it. “How are you feeling now?” Gods, he sounded like a physician. His father would be rendered speechless if he knew his beloved son spoke in such a manner to a woman so far beneath his social status.

  Then again, Tacitus’ actions in such matters had often reduced his father to speechlessness.

  Nimue’s frown mutated into a scowl and she struggled to sit up. He didn’t offer to assist, since first he was certain she would refuse and secondly it was entertaining to watch her trying to keep his cloak wrapped around her while she wriggled into position.

  “I’ve never been so incapacitated.” She sounded distressed, although she still glared at him. “It’s humiliating.”

  “It will soon pass.” If her blood had poisoned, she would already be showing the symptoms. “I regret you were shot, as if you were an enemy. It should never have occurred.”

  Her glare faded and she looked confused.

  “But I am your enemy. I only wonder that you didn’t strike me down yourself.”

  Her fingers peeked from between the folds of his cloak. He covered them with his hand in a blatant gesture of possessiveness. She didn’t protest.

  “I told you.” He didn’t bother hiding his amusement. “I don’t fight women. You posed no threat to me or the Empire. Why would I strike you down?”

  “Had our positions been reversed I would have had no hesitation in striking you down.” She sounded irritated.

  How enchanting she believed herself capable of felling a warrior. The conversation reminded him of the one they’d shared at the stream, before he’d had no choice but to make her his slave.

  “I’d like to see you try.” He knew some Celtic women fought alongsid
e their men-folk but they were built like men themselves. Or so he had heard. Personally, he’d not faced any in battle and for that he was relieved. The thought of killing a woman, even a woman who thought herself as good as a man, horrified him.

  “You would not have time to see.” Nimue’s eyes darkened before his gaze. “If I struck, you’d be dead before you realized what had happened.”

  Gently he pulled her hand from the folds of his cloak. She didn’t resist. Still holding onto her, he traced the fingers of his other hand along her slender forearm. Her skin was smooth, warm and gave a tantalizing glimpse of how the rest of her body would feel beneath his questing touch.

  “This isn’t the arm of a woman who wields a sword.” He thought of his noble Roman-born mother; of her admirable womanly skills. “Although your prowess with the loom is doubtless exemplary.”

  She stared at him as if she hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about. Did Celt women not take pride in their weaving abilities, as did the noblewomen of Rome? Nimue’s gown had been of the finest quality and she was no peasant, yet she appeared not to realize he’d just paid her a high compliment.

  “I don’t possess a sword.” Her gaze dropped to watch as he toyed with her silver bracelets. They were all intricately engraved, but one in particular drew his attention. It showed the passage of the moon during the course of a monthly cycle, and interspersed between each lunar image was a detailed engraving of an owl. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, it appeared oddly familiar. “What have you done with my dagger?”

  He abandoned her bracelets and once again caught her mesmeric gaze.

  “You have no need for your dagger.” Just because he knew she couldn’t kill him didn’t mean he wasn’t fully aware she could cause him severe injury if she attacked him while he slept. He’d secured it with his own weapons. “I’ll protect you against any who might wish you harm.”