The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  His arm didn’t waver. Neither did his expression. “I have orders not to allow you to pass.”

  The fear inched higher in her breast and threatened to paralyze her throat. “I do not wish to pass.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the desperation in her voice. “I simply wish to look around.”

  He towered over her, a great hulk of a man and instinctively she took a step back.

  “I have no wish to force you back inside,” he said. “But I will if I have to.”

  She took another step back, her gaze scanning the ground. But no familiar leather pouch greeted her. Had she really believed it would be this easy? She gripped her unraveling courage together and tried once more. “I must—”

  He didn’t even wait to let her finish. He simply shut the door in her face.

  For a moment, she stared at the door until the reality of her situation slammed through her mind.

  She had lost the bluestone. And although she’d taken it without permission and had intended to use it for her own ends, an insidious sense of something far greater than her own plans hovered on the edge of her consciousness.

  Return what you have taken. The imperious command echoed through her mind, but why did it? And why did it sound so eerily familiar?

  Slowly she turned around, to see Tacitus’ servants staring at her as though she was something unspeakably foul. Her heart jerked in her chest as she remembered all her treasured possessions, scattered across Tacitus’ bed, and she hurried back to his room.

  Relief streaked through her. Nothing had been taken. She sat on the edge of the bed and with shaking fingers returned the contents to their respective pouches, until she came to her mother’s exquisitely engraved torque.

  A shaft of bittersweet pain engulfed her heart as she traced her finger over the gleaming silver. The torque had been passed from mother to eldest daughter for generations, and the bestowal had always been cause for great celebration.

  Except there had been no celebration when her mother had given her the priceless heirloom. Only terror, disbelief and the rank stench of betrayal.

  Her fingers tightened around the silver as she tried to push the memories to the back of her mind. It would do no good dwelling on them now. Not when she had to somehow find the bluestone. And work on gaining Tacitus’ trust—at least enough for him to allow her free access throughout this cursed Roman fortification. How could she discover the whereabouts of the queen if she was forbidden to leave Tacitus’ quarters?

  Voices in the adjoining room penetrated her thoughts. It was a deep, masculine voice but it wasn’t Tacitus and before she could investigate for herself what was happening the door flew open.

  A large Roman in flowing white robes with a purple stripe smiled at her from the doorway. He was the same Roman who had burst into Tacitus’ tent the other day. The one Tacitus had attempted to prevent from seeing her, as she had sat on his bed covered only by his cloak.

  She gave him her haughtiest look and rose to her feet, her heart thudding with trepidation against her ribs. There could be few reasons why this Roman was here, and she doubted any of them had to do with negotiating her freedom.

  The lust in his eyes was evident. And this time Tacitus was not here.

  Her fingers clenched around her torque, but as a weapon it was useless. If only she still had her dagger. To be so defenseless and vulnerable was intolerable. She had never been without a personal weapon at her hip since she had been a child and the extent of her vulnerability tasted foul on her tongue.

  She didn’t need to glance beyond the Roman to know that Tacitus’ servants stood, useless, in the next room. They wouldn’t come to her aid. All she could rely on was her wits and speed, and she was sorely compromised because of her injured shoulder.

  “Greetings,” the Roman said, stepping into the room. He continued to smile at her as if he imagined that might lower her guard. Did he think her a fool? And before the question had even finished forming, she acknowledged the truth.

  Yes, he did. He looked at her and didn’t see a captured enemy warrior. He saw a woman he wanted in his bed. The Gaul, curse him, had been right. It was not a dagger she needed in order to slay this Roman. It was his perception of her that would prove his downfall.

  When she didn’t respond he took another step toward her. “Don’t be afraid,” he said and it was only then she realized he was speaking her language, and not Latin. Did he think her ignorant of his barbaric tongue? The notion stung her pride but she kept silent. Let him think her an uneducated peasant. And on the heels of that thought came another.

  If he thought her a peasant, he would never imagine for a moment what she truly was. Hadn’t she, back in the mountains when Tacitus had first come upon her, known that concealing her identity was her best hope for survival?

  But then she had been dressed as a noble. Now she was dressed as a slave. For all this Roman knew, she might have stolen the bracelets from her dead countrywomen.

  “What is your name?” He injected a false friendly note in his voice. Nimue imagined impaling an arrow through his lying mouth. “Come now, I won’t hurt you.”

  Despite her precarious situation, his arrogant assumption that she was paralyzed with terror irked her. She tilted her jaw at him and only just remembered not to give him a withering glare for good measure. “My name is Nimue.”

  His smile faltered and for a fleeting moment confusion wreathed his features. Belatedly Nimue understood why. Great Goddess, would she never learn to hold her tongue? She might look like a peasant but she certainly didn’t speak like one.

  “Nimue.” She wasn’t sure whether he spoke to her, or himself. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  And now he attempted flattery? By calling her a girl?

  He gave a low laugh and took yet another step into the room. But he didn’t close the door behind him. “There’s no need to look so apprehensive,” he said, and he was so close that if only she still possessed her dagger she could have plunged it through his corrupt heart before he drew another breath. “I mean only to make your acquaintance, nothing more.”

  She flicked a scornful glance over him. His dark chestnut hair was short, as all Romans kept their hair, with only the faintest sprinkling of silver to belie his advancing years. His entire bearing exuded aristocratic authority and the assumption that his slightest command would be obeyed without question.

  “Then there is nothing more to discuss.” He had her trapped between his body and the bed. Self-disgust flooded her veins. Why had she allowed herself to be maneuvered into such a vulnerable tactical position?

  “I can see why the tribune likes you.” The Roman appeared to be amused by her response, which hadn’t been her intention at all. “Although by Jupiter I cannot fathom why he dresses you like the meanest creature of the gutters.”

  The Roman’s criticism of Tacitus oddly annoyed her. She might be offended by the garments he’d left her, but that was between her and Tacitus. “My own gown was ruined.” She didn’t even try for humility anymore. It appeared such a feat was beyond her capabilities. “At least these are clean.” True enough. Even if the rough material did scratch her skin.

  There was no mistaking the amusement that gleamed in his eyes this time. “You should be dressed in the finest of silks and softest of linen.” His lip quirked as if the image pleased him. “I see I shall have to instruct the tribune in such matters.”

  “There’s no need.” She didn’t know why the Roman’s unsubtle censure of Tacitus bothered her so, but the thought of him lecturing Tacitus because of her plagued her senses. And because this Roman’s casual assumption that she couldn’t understand Latin scraped her nerves she decided to reply in his own cursed language. “I am, after all, merely a slave and dressed in garments fit only for a slave.” As she shot the words at him she fixed her torque around her throat. She didn’t know why he managed to so raise her ire, or why she told him she was nothing more than a slave while she flashed priceless jewelry in his face. She
knew he was Tacitus’ superior. If he wished he could have her flogged or worse for her behavior. Yet somehow she knew he wouldn’t.

  He didn’t want to disfigure her body. He wanted to possess it.

  The silence after her last thrust stretched between them until finally Nimue risked a fleeting glance. He was staring at her, entranced. It was clear the fact she could not only speak his language but could speak it fluently staggered him.

  A dozen barbed comments danced on the tip of Nimue’s tongue. Yet they remained locked within as her gaze meshed with the Roman’s. And a terrifying thought gripped her heart.

  Had she gone too far? Had this powerful Roman guessed she was no ordinary Celt noblewoman? Does he know I’m a Druid?

  Chapter 18

  The moment Tacitus entered his quarters he knew Nimue was in danger. It wasn’t simply the way his servants, who should have been busy at their tasks, scattered at his arrival. It was a gut reaction that hit him with the force of a physical blow.

  He marched through the room and then stopped dead at the sight of his commander, in his bedchamber, looming over Nimue.

  White rage seared through him and without thinking of the consequences, he stamped into the room. His commander had trapped Nimue by the bed and it was obvious what would have happened if Tacitus hadn’t returned.

  “Sir.” He ground out the word, clenching his fists. To lay hands on his commander could end his career, no matter how good friends he was with Tacitus’ father. But gods, if the bastard didn’t step back from Nimue instantly, Tacitus would bring down the full force of the law on his commander’s head.

  Slowly his commander turned to him, and for a fleeting moment Tacitus could have sworn the older man threw him a look of fury. What the fuck did he have to be furious about? That Tacitus had interrupted his sport?

  “Tribune.” Once again the commander’s face showed no trace of emotion. “Your latest acquisition is enchanting.” Without another glance at Nimue he turned and strode into the other room. Tacitus threw Nimue a black scowl but she didn’t look pleased with herself that she’d managed to snare the interest of his commanding officer. Instead she rubbed her fingers gingerly over her wounded shoulder and guilt flooded through him.

  He’d been so consumed by her refusal to accept his offer and the knowledge she’d used sex to prove a point that he’d forgotten about her injury. He should have left the opium with one of his servants so Nimue had access to pain relief. And then something else punched into his brain.

  What in Hades was she wearing? Did it give her perverse pleasure to disobey every word he uttered, even when he was attempting to ease her situation?

  There wasn’t time to take issue with it now. His commander was in the other room and didn’t look happy at being kept waiting.

  “Wait here.” His voice was gruff and she looked at him, but he couldn’t decipher the expression on her face. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want to. Because she looked at him as if everything about him sickened her.

  Abruptly he turned and marched after his commander. It was obvious what the older man wanted. And Tacitus had no intention of agreeing.

  Hands clasped behind his back, his commander turned to face him. “How much did you pay for her?”

  That wasn’t the question Tacitus had expected. He considered refusing to answer but there was little point. His commander could discover the price easily enough if he so wished. And so he named the amount.

  The commander didn’t move a muscle, even though the price was hefty for an injured captive. The silence became oppressive but still the other man didn’t speak or break eye contact. Was he waiting for Tacitus to extend hospitality in the form of using Nimue for the night?

  Then his commander was in for a long wait. Tacitus was not his father, who saw nothing wrong in offering the sexual service of his slaves to favored friends.

  “I’ll pay you double for her.”

  Tacitus clenched his jaw, rage threatening to demolish his civilized veneer. “She’s not for sale.”

  Something dark and dangerous flashed in his commander’s eyes. “Name your price, Tacitus.”

  “There is no price. Sir.” The honorific sounded almost insulting, affixed to the end of his remark in such a manner but Tacitus didn’t care. It wasn’t him defying convention here. It was his commander. Tacitus decided to make the situation absolutely clear. “She belongs to me. I’ve pledged to keep her safe from harm.” Let the other man make what he liked of that. The intention was plain.

  Tacitus would not stand by and allow Nimue—his property—to be used by any other.

  His commander narrowed his eyes, his piercing gaze burning into Tacitus’ mind. “I have no intention of harming her, tribune. If you’re too enamored with her to part with her yet, then give me your word on this. When you tire of her, I claim first right of purchase. Do you agree?”

  The image of his commander fucking Nimue turned his guts. He would never agree to such a thing. Because he had no intention of selling Nimue.

  But what if, when the time came for him to return to Rome, his commander refused to grant Nimue manumission? If she was free she could return to her people, wherever they were. But if she remained a slave how could he continue to protect her unless he took her home—and acquired her freedom there from an unbiased magistrate?

  Gods, how would Nimue survive as a freedwoman in Rome, unless she did agree to become his concubine?

  “Should I decide to sell Nimue,” Tacitus said, and the words corroded his soul; as if he was speaking of a prize mare his commander had taken a fancy to, “I give you my word you will be the first I approach.”

  His commander didn’t respond. After a fraught silence he finally jerked his head in acceptance and left. Tacitus expelled a frustrated breath, kicked the door shut and returned to his troublesome slave.

  She hadn’t moved from where he’d left her, but she was no longer rubbing her wounded shoulder. The look she gave him, however, hadn’t altered in the slightest.

  He resisted the urge to massage his pounding temples. Nothing had gone smoothly from the moment he’d found Nimue by the mountain stream. But at least this conversation with his commander, as much as it had irritated him, had clarified one thing. His commander now knew Tacitus would not stand by and allow any man to abuse Nimue, and he needed to make her understand.

  “There’s no need to fear. You’ll never belong to the commander. And while you’re under my protection, his honor will never allow him to touch you.”

  That should ease her mind. It had certainly eased his although nothing would induce him to admit such a thing aloud.

  “I don’t fear him.” As always she spoke to him in Latin, but for the first time he acknowledged the quality of her Latin. Her accent would always mar her as a foreigner but her grasp of his language was akin to that of a patrician.

  The haughty glance she gave him to accompany her words were at sharp odds with the garments she’d chosen to wear. He couldn’t fathom where she’d got them. Even his servants dressed better than this.

  “Why aren’t you wearing the gown I arranged for you?” He knew she was proud but she didn’t have to look like a beggar to prove her objection to her situation. He was fully aware of how she felt.

  So why in the name of all the gods had she refused his offer? If she hadn’t been so stubborn he could have acquired her manumission already, before his commander had taken it upon himself to meet with Nimue and decided he wanted her for himself.

  “I am wearing the gown you arranged for me.”

  Air hissed between his clenched teeth. Without another word he swung on his heel and marched from the room. His orders had been specific, but obviously not specific enough. It was clear that when it came to Nimue nothing was ever going to be straightforward.

  And again the infuriated thought pounded through his head.

  If Nimue was his official concubine, his servants would never have dared to offer her such coarse clothing.

  * * *
/>
  Nimue followed Tacitus to the door and watched him storm toward the kitchen and servants’ area. That he was displeased with her gown was clear. Why that somehow eased her wounded soul she couldn’t imagine. Because it didn’t change her status.

  Neither did the fact he had just assured her she was safe from his superior officer. Her pride demanded that Tacitus’ word meant nothing to her. In Rome’s eyes, she might be nothing but a slave but in her heart she was free. And no matter how brutally the enemy might use her she would survive and complete her mission.

  But the truth was sorely different. Because in reality the thought of being used by countless barbarous Romans to satisfy their carnal lusts terrified her. And she despised her terror. Was she not a warrior? Had she not participated in many ambushes and skirmishes with the enemy since they’d invaded her beloved Cymru?

  Yet it didn’t change the fundamental truth. Despite how she’d refused to be cowed by the older Roman, she had been very aware of the possibility that she could end up in his bed. Not because Tacitus would allow it. But because Tacitus could not prevent it.

  The realization that Tacitus could, indeed, prevent such a fate shouldn’t be cause for such deep relief or—Goddess forgive her—gratitude.

  What would she gain by continuing to delude herself? She had never given herself to Tacitus simply as a strategic measure. Could she have experienced such glorious orgasms with his superior officer? The image of attempting to seduce him made her feel ill.

  The questions swirled through her mind, tangled and edged with unformed alarm. She desperately needed to commune with Arianrhod. Not to ask her about her mission, but because her wise Goddess would soothe her battered soul and calm her turbulent thoughts. Without considering the consequences, she went to the front door and pulled it open. This time the legionary didn’t attempt to prevent her escape. She looked up and a deep, thick darkness shrouded the skies.