The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  “Very well.” Her voice was haughty. “I’ll wear your tunic on the condition you don’t burn my gown.”

  She was giving him ultimatums? He stared at her in stunned disbelief, not only at her audacity but at her sudden change of mind.

  He could remind her she was in no position to issue demands. But what did it matter? She had acquiesced to his command. It would be easier to simply allow her to believe she had gained a small victory.

  “Agreed.” Thank the gods no one would ever know of this conversation. He would be ridiculed throughout Rome for being unable to keep his own slave in check.

  The thought clawed through his brain. She was only a slave. But she was still unaware. All he needed to do was keep her in ignorance for another day. It shouldn’t be difficult. No legionary would dare approach her and his fellow officers wouldn’t engage her attention without his permission.

  She sniffed and picked at the linen between finger and thumb.

  “I need to consult with your healer.”

  He shot her a sharp glance. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” But she had told him her shoulder hurt. And he hadn’t thought to pursue it further because she hadn’t complained further. “Let me look.” He hoped the stitches were still intact.

  She looked at his hand, as he hovered over the bandage, as if she had no idea what he thought he was doing.

  “I’m not talking about my wound.” She pushed his hand aside with one disdainful finger. “I need to flush out my womb.”

  “You need…to what?” Had he heard correctly? Surely not. Flush out her womb? The implication of what she might mean sent shudders through him.

  She scowled as if she thought he was being deliberately obtuse.

  “Cleanse my womb of your seed, Tacitus. I have no desire to bear your bastard.” She made it sound as if that was the worst thing imaginable. In the outer reaches of his mind he wondered that he should be offended by her obvious disgust at such an outcome but it was a vague, insubstantial thought. Because his senses were reeling with incredulity that a woman was discussing such things with him in the first place.

  A woman’s fertility was none of his concern. Not until he married. The lovers he’d taken in the past had never breathed a word about the possibility of conceiving his child, and he’d never inquired as to what they did to prevent such event from occurring.

  In truth, he had never considered the matter at all. He’d taken it for granted that the women would take the necessary precautions. That was what women did. It was only a man’s wife who was subject to his scrutiny.

  And a man’s slave. But he had never taken a slave before. Had never even been with a prostitute, and so the question of using a sheath to protect his health—and prevent conception—had never arisen.

  His glance slid to her belly. Was it possible she had conceived his child? The thought chilled his blood sufficiently to diminish his erection. Despite his privileged upbringing, he’d been acutely aware of the difference in status between him and his many half-sisters. He’d never wish such prejudice to touch his own child.

  Nimue’s child.

  “How likely is that…outcome?” He swallowed and mentally girded his loins. Perhaps she was already protected. Perhaps she was merely wishing to be absolutely certain.

  She gave an impatient sigh and shrugged her uninjured shoulder.

  “It is not likely.” She sounded disgruntled. “I’m still in my moon quarter so conception should be impossible. I merely wish to be prepared for the future.”

  Her moon quarter? Unease crawled along his spine. This was not talk meant for a man’s ears. How could she even broach this subject with him—and without a shred of embarrassment?

  She was his slave. Who else could she speak of it to?

  Slaves never mentioned such things to their masters. But then, Nimue was no ordinary slave and he had no wish to be her master in that sense of the word.

  For the last nine months, he’d been the second-in-command of the Legion; had strategized with the commander and led troops into battle. None of it compared to facing this woman and speaking of matters he had no business discussing with anyone.

  But he had no choice.

  “I’ll make the necessary arrangements for the future.” He knew he was scowling but it was the only way he managed to push the words along his throat. He’d speak to Marcellus. Face the inevitable mockery. But better that than having Nimue consult with his friend on such intimacies.

  Even before the thought finished forming, he saw her forehead crease, saw her preparing to once again dispute his word. But before her evident displeasure at his decision found voice, he heard the tent flap being ripped open, heard his commander make a sordid jest.

  “Cover yourself.” He barked the order at her, grabbing the edge of his cloak as he did so and for once, she didn’t argue. Instead, she wrapped his cloak around her, gripping the edges together at her throat so her body was entirely concealed.

  Tacitus swung back and glared as his commander strolled into the tent. The commander offered him a knowing grin before transferring his leer to Nimue.

  His grin slid from his face and an all too familiar look gleamed in the commander’s eyes. Infuriated, Tacitus stepped in front of Nimue and folded his arms. With clear reluctance, the commander refocused his gaze on Tacitus.

  “You’re behind schedule.” It was a reprimand. In front of Nimue. But as far as the commander was concerned, Nimue was only a slave. And one could say anything in front of a slave.

  It did nothing to alleviate the simmering anger roiling through Tacitus’ blood. Especially since the rebuke was deserved. He’d had no business taking Nimue when he was still on duty. And yet after she’d regained consciousness, he’d forgotten everything but the need to possess her.

  “Sir.” It could have been worse. Blandus could have accompanied his commander.

  Instead of leaving, the commander strolled farther into the tent, his attention on the bed. Tacitus stepped forward, blocking his advance. “Is that all, sir?”

  The older man regarded him. There was a calculating look on his face, an expression Tacitus had witnessed in the past but never before had it been directed at him, and never had it caused his gut to tighten with such rigid distaste.

  “We’ll talk later.” The commander’s voice was deceptively mild. He turned to leave then paused and glanced over his shoulder. “I understand, now, why Blandus was so pissed you reneged on your deal.” He shot Tacitus a mocking smile. “Don’t allow it to cause any professional ill-feeling. You understand?”

  He understood perfectly. Blandus had complained to his uncle who, having now seen Nimue, appreciated the situation.

  But that wasn’t the reason why the savage urge to smash his fist into his commander’s face thudded through his blood. His hands fisted by his sides, his muscles tensed in readiness for battle.

  His cousin held no threat. But after seeing Nimue, the casual interest in his commander’s eyes had been replaced by something far more dangerous.

  It was no longer mild amusement that Tacitus had bought a slave girl. Just as Tacitus had known he would, his commander lusted after Nimue.

  Chapter 13

  Since Tacitus had no intention of allowing Nimue out of his sight during the journey, he once again defied convention and had her ride with him on his horse. But then again, she belonged to him. She was his personal responsibility. She could no sooner travel with the other slaves, who trudged in chains at the rear of the convoy, as she could ride with the injured legionaries in the medical wagons.

  The unsettling notion that he was making too many excuses for his actions crossed his mind, but he banished it with the contempt it deserved. He wasn’t making excuses. There was no other option.

  No other officer made any comment, and if they considered the fact she was wearing his cloak a breach of protocol, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

  Nimue sat in front of him, ramrod straight, as proud as a heathen queen. He wore
his spare cloak, and had insisted she wrap his other one around her. She displayed far too much flesh wearing only his tunic. He’d been surprised she hadn’t argued, but also relieved. He hadn’t felt up to explaining his reasoning. How could he tell her he didn’t want his commander to see her naked thighs as she straddled the saddle?

  Even now, on the open road, he could detect a tantalizing hint of the wild, abandoned sex that soiled the cloak she wore.

  Involuntarily, his arm tightened around her waist. The tempting notion of fucking her once again blurred his vision and thickened his cock. So much for not thinking of her during the day. But how could he not when she was so close to him? When, despite her frigid posture, the curve of her delectable bottom nestled against his erection?

  He exhaled and tried not to think of her smooth, rounded buttocks. Tried not to imagine her bent over a couch, thighs spread, naked and willing and ready for him.

  Tried, and failed. Gods, it was going to be an agonizingly long journey before they camped for the night.

  * * *

  Nimue glared straight ahead as the Roman Legions charged through her land. And she was at the front of the onslaught, held securely in Tacitus’ arm, as if he had every right to hold her so possessively.

  As they had started this journey, she’d caught sight of the other prisoners. They were chained together like animals, and herded into obedience.

  She’d been torn between relief and horror. Relief, that so many of the women and children who had been on the mountain had apparently escaped the Romans. And horror that not all of them had.

  The queen and princess had not been with the other women and children. It would seem the Romans knew exactly who they had captured, and were intent on ensuring their royal prisoners arrived without further harm at their destination.

  Her stomach had churned at her fleeting glimpse of the captives. A shaming relief streaked through her when she realized she didn’t know any of them, but that vanished instantly. It didn’t matter if they were from a different tribe than hers. They had all come together with one goal in mind. To rid Cymru and Britain of the invaders.

  And now they were enslaved to the Roman Empire.

  How had she escaped that fate? If another Roman had found her by the stream, would she be chained with the other captives now? A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach at the thought. But the question echoed in her mind.

  It was more than the fact Tacitus wanted her to warm his bed. He—any of the Romans—could take any of the enslaved they desired, and the Celts would have no choice in the matter.

  She was the daughter of a high-ranking noble. Royal blood flowed in her foremothers’ ancestry. She was a chosen one of the Moon Goddess herself, descended from powerful Druids in an unbroken line since the beginning of Creation.

  Arianrhod—or perhaps even Arawn, the lord of the Otherworld—had ensured she remained free for a purpose. So she could complete her mission, return the queen to Caratacus and then they could continue the fight against the Romans.

  * * *

  They finally halted as dusk hovered overhead. She dismounted and ignored the tremors of lust that assailed her as Tacitus’ strong hands spanned her waist in unwanted assistance.

  She turned to face him and with seeming reluctance, he released her.

  “Remain here. I will return shortly.” But he didn’t leave instantly, perhaps waiting for her to confirm obedience to his command.

  He would wait forever. She tightened her one-handed grip on his cloak, hating how his scent permeated the scarlet wool yet at the same time offered her a sense of false security.

  “Your Legion is diminished.” Was it a tactical error? Somehow she couldn’t believe the Romans had accidentally lost a vast portion of their numbers. Yet it was quite obviously so.

  Tacitus looked taken aback by her observation. It was obvious he hadn’t imagined she would notice such things.

  “Only marginally.” For a moment she thought he was going to say more, to elaborate, but instead he brushed his fingers over her tangled hair. “Don’t attempt to escape. I can’t guarantee your safety outside this camp.”

  He turned and she couldn’t drag her fascinated gaze from the way his cloak swung about his muscled legs, nor the arrogant way he marched through the legionaries. Only when he finally disappeared did she heave a silent sigh and sweep her glance around the glade.

  She was desperate to relieve herself. And she had no intention of waiting for Tacitus to produce a loathsome bucket. Stealthily she made her way to the tree line. She would be only a few moments.

  No one accosted her. No one gave her more than a fleeting glance. If she had intended to escape, who would stop her?

  The thought hammered through her brain. Would anyone try? How far could she get before Tacitus returned and began a search?

  As she slid into the edge of the forest, the thought persisted. She was under no illusion that all these Romans and their mercenaries knew Tacitus considered her his personal property. And yet clearly he had not given orders that she was to be prevented from wandering as she pleased.

  Peering through the barrier of bushes at the activity as a camp was constructed, that knowledge glowed, bright with promise. She couldn’t escape tonight. Not only was she ill-prepared but she still had to find the queen and princess.

  But she’d discovered something valuable. Something she intended to use. Tacitus trusted her to obey his command. When the time was right, she would use that trust to secure the freedom of the Briton queen and her daughter.

  Feeling considerably more cheerful with an empty bladder and new possibilities of escape, she stepped back into the glade. A shadow loomed from the darkness of the trees and her heart slammed against her ribs in sudden alarm. Has someone been watching me?

  “Don’t you know how dangerous it is for a Celt to wander alone out here?” The voice was mocking, accented and she couldn’t place it at all.

  “Who are you?” Her voice was haughty. She would never show how his sudden appearance had so badly startled her.

  He moved from the shadows and she glared at him. He was no Roman but one of their auxiliaries. How dare he creep up on her?

  “I’m the one who saved the worthless skin of the Roman you intended to gut.”

  Jagged thoughts pounded through her brain. She had never intended to gut Tacitus, but she remembered advancing toward him, dagger poised.

  “You shot me.” She didn’t feel particularly angry at him. She was, after all, his enemy and in his shoes would likely have done the same to save one of her own.

  “I did.” Although the sun was sinking onto the western horizon, the twilight illuminated the glade and she could clearly see the dislike ingrained in the auxiliary’s features. “Next time I’ll ride away.”

  What did he mean? That he regretted shooting her? Why would he regret something like that?

  “Bearach.” The voice was sharp, authoritative. “What in the gods’ names are you doing?”

  Another auxiliary. Nimue drew the cloak around her more securely and stiffened her spine further. If Tacitus came upon her now he would never believe she hadn’t been trying to escape. He’d jump to the conclusion these two barbarians had prevented her, and then she could forget about her tribune extending even a modicum of trust toward her again.

  “I’m doing nothing, Gervas,” Bearach said. “Isn’t that right, Celt? I haven’t touched a hair on your head.”

  “Enough.” Gervas towered over her, but his attention was focused on the other man. “It’s not the girl’s fault. Get out of here before her master discovers to whom she speaks.”

  Her master? Nimue shot Gervas a glare of intense dislike, but he missed it since he was entirely focused on Bearach.

  Bearach gave a bitter laugh. “He must value you highly, Celt. Not many Roman officers go so far as to buy a foreign slave when her charms can be had for free. You must be a mind-blowing fuck.”

  “Go.” Gervas didn’t raise his voice, but it was
enough for Bearach to turn and stalk back to camp.

  Nimue glowered after his retreating back, his words pummeling inside her skull. She didn’t believe him. Not for a moment. Tacitus had not bought her.

  “You must forgive his uncouth tongue,” Gervas said, indicating with a sweep of his arm that he expected her to precede him back to camp. She remained rooted to the spot, and could do nothing to prevent the waves of mortified heat from pounding through her body and flooding her cheeks. Am I a slave?

  Gervas shot her a glance. “He meant nothing by it. He’s merely…irked by his punishment.”

  She tilted her head and gave Gervas a proud look. “So he lied about my status?”

  Gervas narrowed his eyes and lowered his arm. For a moment he stared at her, assessing her, and she maintained eye contact. Finally he exhaled a slow breath and took a step back.

  “You didn’t know.” It wasn’t a question. But his words answered so much. Too much. Her stomach cramped and only by sheer force of will did she remain utterly still and not curl up with humiliated disbelief. She was a slave.

  “I was not paraded on the block.” The words choked her. She’d been so smugly certain she had escaped that fate. So sure she was Tacitus’ special prisoner. But what was a special prisoner except a sex slave?

  Nausea roiled. Somehow, while she had been unconscious, she’d been put up for sale. And Tacitus had bought her.

  As if she was nothing more than a horse, or a goat, or a piece of fine jewelry he admired.

  “No.” There was a thread of sympathy in Gervas’ voice. She wanted to cut his throat for his sympathy. I don’t need a filthy auxiliary’s sympathy. “You were never with the other slaves. The tribune bought you after he brought you back from the mountain.”

  Chapter 14

  Nimue couldn’t look at the auxiliary. She couldn’t bear to risk seeing the sympathy in his voice reflected in his eyes. Instead she glared straight ahead, to where the camp was constructed, and attempted to smother the pain coiling through her breast.