The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  Nimue frowned, but no glimmer of the silver moon could be seen. Of course it wasn’t unusual for clouds to obscure the Moon Goddess on her nighttime passage across the skies but still a shiver spidered along Nimue’s spine.

  Something was wrong. She could feel it in the spiritual essence of her being; the special place where the Great Goddess had entered and filled her young acolyte with adoration on that long-ago night of initiation. She closed her eyes, willed her thoughts to still, and opened her heart to her Goddess. Please forgive me. Please return. She hadn’t meant to lose the bluestone.

  “Nimue.” Tacitus voice punched through her senses and she swung around. He was glaring at her from the center of the room. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Would he understand if she told him the truth? He was only a heathen Roman, but even Romans acknowledged the power of foreign deities and Tacitus was not an ordinary Roman.

  “I was attempting to commune with my Goddess,” she said with as much dignity as she could. “I feel barren without her love to comfort me.”

  “Do you need to stand before an open door in order to do this?”

  No, she didn’t. But neither did she generally call upon her Goddess while inside a dwelling. “I usually worship her at night.” Although she generally worshipped her Goddess whenever she had a quiet moment, she felt something more was needed so he appreciated just how important Arianrhod was to her. “In a sacred glade.” Because Tacitus had not told her to, she turned and closed the door, since that was clearly his intention despite how he didn’t move toward her.

  “You’ll have to find alternative arrangements. There are no glades, sacred or otherwise, within the garrison.”

  “I won’t use your heathen temple.”

  He flashed a smile that appeared genuine, and she was once again enchanted. And a treacherous thought weaved through her mind.

  Why couldn’t he be a brave Celt warrior that she could, at least, dream of having a future with?

  “I’d never expect you to use our temple. I fear such sacrilege would bring plague and pestilence upon us all.”

  Before she’d met Tacitus she had never imagined a Roman possessed a sense of humor. Certainly not when it came to his barbaric gods.

  “You’re right to fear such retribution.” Although, in the back of her mind, the unnatural blackness of the night ate into her, she couldn’t help smiling back at him. “My gods can be mighty in their wrath.”

  He came toward her and held out his hand. Without thinking she took it. His strong fingers folded around hers, and even that small touch caused delightful tremors to lick across her skin.

  “Perhaps I should offer sacrifice to your gods in appeasement.” His smoky voice curled through her senses.

  He wore the Roman tunic and cloak of her enemy, yet all she could see when she looked at him was the man who invaded her thoughts when he shouldn’t; the man whose touch she craved no matter how hard she tried to deny the truth.

  “Surely your Roman gods would strike you down for honoring mine.”

  “The gods of Rome are surprisingly tolerant of such indiscretions.”

  She didn’t want to be intrigued, and yet she was. “My gods would never countenance such a thing.”

  He tugged her forward and she went without resistance. Why pretend something they both knew to be false? Her refusal to climax the last time Tacitus had taken her had done nothing but cause her frustration. It hadn’t changed her status. Hadn’t changed the way she felt about him.

  She might as well enjoy the time they had together because when she left with the queen and princess, they would never see each other again.

  “Then whose gods are the more enlightened, Nimue?” He was laughing at her, mocking her beliefs, and yet fury didn’t rush through her veins or the desire to cut out his blasphemous tongue flood her senses.

  Fascination weaved through her instead. “That’s easy to say, Tacitus.” They entered his bedchamber and he kicked the door shut behind them, and the lamps cast a mystical glow across the room. “But in reality your gods would strike you down if you worshipped another.”

  He grasped her braid and then slowly slid his fist along the length of her hair, still damp from when she had washed it earlier. “Yet still I survive.”

  They no longer held hands. Tacitus pulled her braid over her shoulder and began to leisurely loosen her hair. It shouldn’t feel so seductive or arousing, and yet she was both seduced and aroused by his gentle touch. She struggled to recall what they had been talking about. Because what he was suggesting was truly—outrageous.

  “You do not worship the gods of Rome?” That couldn’t be so.

  “I do worship them.” He speared his fingers through her hair and arranged her damp curls over her shoulders. “And I also worship the gods of my maternal heritage.”

  She’d had no idea Romans considered their maternal heritage worth preserving. Not if it went against their despicable Emperor’s decree. “Your mother is not of Rome?”

  His fingers stilled in her hair and an odd expression crossed his face. As if her question had caused him pain.

  “She is of Rome. But she holds onto her old ways. I made the decision while still a child to embrace her gods to honor her.”

  Goddess, she didn’t want any more reason to find Tacitus irresistible but his confession undid her. She’d always been taught Romans thought little of women. That their wives and, by extension, their mothers were not given respect and honor.

  “In that regard at least,” she said, as he began to tug the rough fastenings at her breast, “your mother will be proud of you.”

  He laughed. “I assure you, my mother is excessively proud of my achievements, Nimue. Yet I intend to exceed her expectations, whatever the cost.” His voice hardened, as if reiterating a pledge he had made long ago.

  More intrigued than she had any right to be, Nimue stared into his hypnotic eyes.

  She wanted to ask him more of his mother. As Tacitus gently eased the rough gown over her injured shoulder, she realized that she wanted to know everything about his family, about his way of life in Rome.

  The questions burned her tongue, closed her throat. Tacitus wasn’t her lover. Not in the same way a warrior of Cymru would be. If he had been, she could ask whatever she wished. But how could she ask Tacitus such personal questions? It gave rise to a level of intimacy she wasn’t comfortable in embracing. No matter how dearly she wished to embrace it.

  To do so would reek of betrayal to her slain countrymen.

  Chapter 19

  Nimue’s gown slid to the floor, but Tacitus didn’t take his gaze from her face. But his eyes darkened and it became harder than ever to recall why she couldn’t simply indulge her desire to speak to him as she wished. Ask him whatever she pleased. Learn of his strange Roman ways that did not condemn its citizens for embracing foreign gods.

  She reached for the brooch that held his cloak in place, but he captured her wrists in his hand, preventing her. “Lie on the bed.”

  “Are you giving me orders, Roman?” There was no malice in her voice. She might hate her status and blame Tacitus for it, but she wasn’t stupid. The confrontation with his commandeering officer this night had clarified more than one question for her.

  Tacitus hadn’t lied when he’d said, “I did what I did in order to protect you.” She didn’t have to like it to appreciate its truth.

  “Yes.” He stepped back from her, removed his cloak and flung it across his casket. Dark flutters of lust kicked low in her pussy as she complied. His gaze raked over her, scorched her naked flesh. Instinctively she crossed her ankles, feeling suddenly vulnerable although she wasn’t sure why. Tacitus had seen her naked before.

  “Does this please you?’ The words tumbled from her mouth before she could prevent them, but although she knew she was defying her Goddess by enjoying this encounter, she couldn’t help herself. The raw need that flared in Tacitus’ eyes at her provocative remark was worth any soul-searching
she would inevitably need to conduct later.

  “Spread your thighs so I might see you properly.”

  She had never done such a thing before. Her lovers before Tacitus—to her shame she had taken only two before this Roman—had never demanded she display herself so utterly. She would never admit to such extraordinary inexperience.

  Slowly she uncrossed her ankles and just as slowly parted her legs. Tacitus gazed at her, transfixed, and the knowledge that he found her so alluring intoxicated her senses.

  “What would you have me do now?” She scarcely recognized the sultry note in her voice. Never before had such a question passed her lips while with a lover. But Tacitus was different, in every way, and not just by virtue of his foreign status.

  His burning gaze licked over her body. How could just a look cause desire to curl through her core and make her nipples ache for his touch? She wanted his hands on her skin, his mouth on her breasts. But he made no move toward her, just continued to visually feast on her nakedness.

  She shifted restlessly. Her exposed pussy lips, spread for his satisfaction, throbbed with need. Could he see her swollen clit? The slick arousal that betrayed her hunger?

  Her ravenous gaze roved over his short military hair. It was nothing like that of any Celt warriors she had known. Until she’d met Tacitus, the thought of spearing her fingers through such short hair had never occurred to her. But now she longed to rake her nails over his head and feel the soft spikes of his hair graze her palm.

  His entire focus centered between her thighs. Quivers claimed her wet sheath and she rolled her hips, unable to stop herself. His aristocratic jaw tensed and she curled her fingers into a fist to stop herself from reaching for him.

  It’s only sex. She tried to convince herself but if that was all this was why did she care about his relationship with his mother? Why was she so deeply moved by the strength of his honor when confronted by his commanding officer?

  Her regard was wrong. All wrong, and yet deep in her soul it felt so inexplicably right. Tacitus was a Roman, the enemy of her people. But that, in itself, didn’t make him inherently an evil man.

  “Touch yourself.” His voice was hoarse and for one eternal moment their gazes clashed. “Show me what pleases you.”

  You please me. The words remained locked in her mind. She could never speak them aloud, for they were more than a confession of carnal pleasure. Her lust was supposed to have subsided once she’d had him. Yet his face and his body and the way he could make her writhe with mindless delight haunted her waking thoughts and invaded her lust-fueled dreams.

  She cradled her breasts, ignoring the twinge of discomfort from her shoulder. It meant nothing when Tacitus’ attention was riveted on her fingers, as she tweaked her aching nipples.

  Primal power surged through her blood and desire swirled low in her pussy. The Dance of the Moon Goddess, performed on the night when Arianrhod’s full magnificence glowed in the sky, was a sacred ritual. Only the Moon Goddess’ priestesses and acolytes were permitted to attend. Yet last night, consumed with fury, she had danced for Tacitus, the first man she had ever bestowed such honor upon.

  Tonight she would dance for him again. She didn’t have to be on her feet to worship her body the way her Goddess commanded. The thought of pleasuring herself while Tacitus watched tightened the need building between her thighs. He had watched her before, but then she had been consumed with fury and the desire to show him she could rise above the lust that thundered between them.

  But she couldn’t rise above it. Had no desire to rise above it. Because it was more than mere lust even if she could never accept it.

  She trailed her fingertips over her ribs, the dip of her waist and curve of her hips. In her mind she imagined the hypnotic thud of the drums and seductive notes of the flutes that the older Druids played while the dancers worshipped the power of the Moon Goddess. She imagined she was alone in the sacred grove, bathed in the silvery nighttime light and Tacitus, her Roman warrior, watched from the shadows of the trees.

  Her fingers slid between her parted thighs and caressed the folds of her sex. She saw Tacitus grit his jaw and knew he kept his distance only by rigid willpower. She would break his proud Roman will and have him on his knees, begging for her favor.

  “This pleases me.” She could scarcely push the words along her throat but it was worth the effort when Tacitus dragged his gaze from her exposed pussy and looked at her as if he was already clinging to the precipice. She stroked the soft inner lip of her sex then teased her swollen clit and sighed as pleasure spiraled through her wet channel.

  “Nimue.” He knelt on the end of the bed between her open legs, his hands bracketing her ankles. “Push your finger inside.”

  Again he gave her orders, the kind of order no man had the right to give a Druid or even an acolyte. But his command was dark, exciting, and without taking her gaze from his bewitched expression she slowly slid her finger into her slick crease.

  “Like this?” Her whisper was a ragged caress that stoked her sensitized flesh.

  His breath escaped in a tortured hiss. The sound inflamed more than her imagined Druidic music.

  “Does that please you also?” He appeared mesmerized by her finger buried deep in her pussy. How was it possible that his utter concentration could enhance her own pleasure so immeasurably?

  She withdrew and trailed her finger, coated with her juices, over her stomach and between the valley of her breasts. Tacitus followed her progress, enthralled, and although she was the one flat on her back, although she was the one enslaved by Roman law, Tacitus was no less imprisoned by the shared bonds of their desire.

  “Yes.” Her finger hovered against her lips and her musky scent drifted like gossamer in the heated air. Without breaking eye contact she slowly, seductively, sucked her finger into her mouth.

  His grip on her ankles tightened and she slid her finger from her mouth until only the tip remained between her pouting lips. She had never before teased a man this way. It had never before occurred to her. But every move she made appeared to inflame Tacitus, and his reactions entranced.

  “How do you taste?” He crouched over her spread thighs, his gaze intent.

  With deliberate provocation the tip of her tongue trailed over the seam of her lips. “I taste of freedom.”

  He licked his lips and lowered his head toward her exposed flesh. She saw him inhale and it shouldn’t have been so erotic, and yet sharp arrows of need speared low in her pussy. The tip of his tongue flicked over her sensitive clit and with a strangled groan, she clutched the bed linen as Tacitus continued to torture her.

  “How do I taste?” Goddess only knew how she managed to squeeze the words out when her heart hammered in her breast and blood pounded against her temples. She felt Tacitus smile against her vulnerable clit, felt his breath fan her damp folds, and the sensation was like nothing she had imagined in her wildest fantasies.

  “You taste like ambrosia from the gods.”

  She didn’t know what ambrosia was, but his inference was plain. Illicit delight swirled low in her belly, enhancing the desire that thundered through her veins. His tongue circled her swollen bud, building the pleasure to unbearable heights. She buried her fingers in his hair, except his hair was not long enough to grip. The very foreignness of the touch of his hair against her palms caused renewed waves of desire to pound through her, and she pressed his head harder between her thighs.

  Gasping, she raised her head to look down at him. The sight of her Roman on his knees eating her pussy was as arousing as the feel of his tongue, the graze of his teeth; the rough scrape of his day-old beard.

  She collapsed back onto the bed. He thrust his tongue into her as his thumb caressed her throbbing clit and she wanted to scream at him to take her, take her now, but she could scarcely breathe and speech was beyond her.

  He slid his other hand beneath her bottom and gripped her arse, angling her upward, shifting his penetration. Then he pushed two fingers inside her a
nd sucked on her sensitized nub, and she forgot how to breathe at all.

  * * *

  Tacitus sucked hard on her clit and felt her pussy clamp around his probing fingers. His cock jerked as her musky scent enveloped his senses. She was wet and hot and her juices trickled over his knuckles as he massaged her tight slit. Every frenzied thud of his heart urged him to fuck her, but he ground back the imperative. She would come first. His pride demanded it. She would never use him the way she had used him before.

  Her strangled whimpers and the feel of her fingers digging into his head were a sweet torture and his resolve stretched tight. I won’t succumb. He edged back, just enough so he could look at her aroused clit. Swollen and pink, peeking from its hood, he’d never seen anything so tempting. He stuck out his tongue and prodded her bud and her hips jerked and thighs clamped around his head.

  He licked her clit, slowly, and her moan vibrated through her body. “You like that?” His voice was hoarse. He didn’t expect an answer but she gave him one just the same. Her hand clutched the back of his head and her message was plain.

  He circled his fingers deep inside her pussy, gripping her arse to keep her still. Her slick sheath undulated and he savored her taste as the tip of his tongue trailed along her slit. She bucked helplessly beneath him as her climax shuddered through her, clenching around his probing fingers, vibrating against his mouth.

  Her choked gasps were all he could hear above the pound of his heart. She came over his hand, and he rammed his tongue against her aroused peak, forcing every last tremor from her shaking body. Only when her rigid muscles relaxed did he finally raise his head to look at her.

  She lay before him, eyes closed, mouth open, her hair spread across his pillows. Her breasts rose and fell with every erratic breath, her erect nipples ripe and inviting. Quivers claimed her body at satisfyingly frequent intervals and the scent of her come was a musky drug in the sex-drenched air.

  She looked thoroughly fucked. There was no hint of pretense in her look or doubt in his mind. He had mastered her, in the only way he had ever desired to master her. Never again would she attempt to delude him in such matters. With a pained breath, he pushed himself up and ripped off his tunic.