The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  His cock throbbed; his balls ached with need. Nimue’s eyes were half-open, watching him as he straddled her. His thighs pushed against her breasts and he loomed over her until the head of his erection brushed her jaw. Her eyes widened as she appeared to finally realize what he had in mind.

  “Take me.” It was a hoarse command and he grasped his cock and angled it against her parted lips. Her uneven breath panted across his wet slit, a blend of hot and chilled air and for an agonized moment, he thought she would refuse.

  Then she opened her mouth and he pushed into her, past her lips, over her tongue. She felt like heated silk and he watched, transfixed, as her lips sealed around him.

  He braced his weight on his knees and wound a length of her hair around his fist. She sucked hard, her cheeks hollowing with effort. He pushed in farther, releasing his grip on his cock, relishing the tight cocoon of her wet mouth.

  She flattened her hands against his rigid thighs, her fingernails digging into his muscles. For a moment he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth. Her compressed tongue rippled beneath his shaft, sending streaks of pleasure straight to his rock-hard balls.

  He tightened his grip on her hair, caught and held her gaze. He pulled out a couple of inches and the scrape of her teeth against his cock threatened to shatter his self-control.

  One hand fisting her hair, the other flattened on his bed beside her head he fought the urge to thrust down her throat and spill his seed deep inside her. It was hard to think, hard to speak, but somehow he forced the words out. “Finally I’ve discovered a way to silence your tongue.”

  She choked and her eyes watered as she attempted to laugh and clearly found it impossible. He shoved farther inside her, connected to the back of her throat and gave her a feral grin. He had never seen anything more arousing than the way Nimue looked with her green eyes focused on him and her mouth full of his cock.

  A primitive groan burned through him and he rocked into her, back and forth. The feel of her mouth surrounding him was like nothing he had experienced before. His thighs tensed, arse clenched and he buried himself into the tight clasp of her throat.

  She convulsed, gagged and dug her nails into him. He bared his teeth at her, forced himself to stop and it was the hardest thing he had done in his life. Bizarrely, her taunt when they’d first met thundered through his mind. “Too much of a man for you, am I?”

  In response, she gripped his arse and tried to jerk him forward. He remained rigid above her although every sense demanded he relinquish control and pour himself into her. But despite the way she clutched his body and worshipped his cock, her eyes were glazed and she was no longer breathing.

  Curse her stubborn Celtic pride. She would never admit she needed air. His muscles protested as he eased out of her delectable wet heat, the slide of her tongue against his flesh mocking his restraint. Her lips pouted around the head of his shaft, pink and swollen. For him. Somehow he found his voice. “I accept your surrender on this matter.”

  Her erratic breath feathered across his erection as she cupped his heavy balls and squeezed. He almost forgot about fearing she might choke and battled the desperate need to plunge back inside her tempting mouth.

  She gasped up at him, her breasts heaving as she sucked air into her lungs. “I didn’t surrender, Roman. You made a tactical withdrawal.”

  To Hades with his tactics. He knew if she wasn’t injured he would have continued. She never complained of pain but how would he know if he hurt her if she couldn’t even make a sound?

  When she had fully recovered, he would take her this way. He would take her in every way.

  She reached up, licked the swollen head of his cock and any future plans he had in mind vanished. He jerked, gritted his teeth and then cushioned his shaft between the valley of her breasts. “My withdrawal is temporary.”

  He pulled her hand from his sac and she appeared bewitched when he had her cradle her breast against him. He cupped her other breast, his thumb grazing her rosy peak, and together they created a seductive embrace around his hot erection. Her breasts enveloped him, a scented haven of soft skin and he gripped the root of his cock and rocked between her luscious flesh.

  There was a look of wonderment on her face as she watched him ride her, as though no man had ever done this to her before. The thought enflamed and his thrusts became urgent, his breathing ragged. Her tight valley became slippery from sweat and she tentatively stroked a finger along the length of his engorged shaft.

  He couldn’t tear his gaze away from his cock pumping between her breasts. From the way she pinched her ripe nipple between her finger and thumb. I have to slow down. But gods, she looked so glorious beneath him offering her breasts and throat for his pleasure.

  And then she spoke. “Come for me,” she whispered. “My barbaric Roman warrior.”

  Her words flayed the last of his control. A primal groan seared him in a primitive wave of lust and need. The force of his climax caused his thigh muscles to lock, his vision to blur. All he could see was Nimue’s flushed face. And then raw possessiveness engulfed him as his hot seed pumped over her breasts and throat, branding her his.

  Chapter 20

  Nimue watched as Tacitus languidly cleaned her with his discarded tunic before tossing the soiled linen aside. Then he propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her. “How is your shoulder, Nimue?”

  Experimentally she rolled her shoulder. It ached, and after the night’s exertions was a little sore, but certainly it was nothing to warrant mentioning. Then she saw the frown on Tacitus’ face, and realized he’d noticed her inadvertent wince. And something occurred to her.

  Tacitus wouldn’t scorn her if she admitted the injury still caused her discomfort. Unlike her own people, he wouldn’t think her weak or complaining unnecessarily. And while, at her core, she valued the strength of mind and body that her people expected from their Druids, she couldn’t deny the flare of comfort that Tacitus’ obvious concern gave her.

  “It’s a little uncomfortable.” She felt blood heat her cheeks at her confession. But Tacitus didn’t look at her as though she had just displayed self-indulgent weakness. He looked concerned as though he imagined she blamed him for her discomfort. “But nothing to concern yourself with,” she added hastily, as guilt ate through her at the way she had succumbed to this Roman’s perception of her. But it had been so long since someone had asked her how she was. So long since her well-being had been genuinely enquired after. Since the Romans had invaded, as long as a warrior could stand, then they were expected to fight, no matter how many injuries they had sustained. And she agreed. If her shoulder had been injured while she was with her people, then she would have found another way to attack the enemy until she was able to once again use her bow.

  But she was not with her people. She was with Tacitus. And Tacitus, even though he was a hated Roman, didn’t crave to see her suffer.

  “I still have the opium Marcellus gave me.” Tacitus shifted on the bed and then gently brushed back an errant curl that had fallen across her cheek. “Shall I get it for you?”

  Shame burned through her at how she had misled Tacitus. She wasn’t a fragile woman of Rome. She was a Druid of Cymru. And yet despite it all she could not deny how Tacitus’ concern warmed her battered heart.

  “It’s not that bad,” she began, and then the rest of her words locked in her throat as a shaft of blinding sunlight dazzled her mind’s eye. She froze, and from the light saw a shadow approaching. A majestic figure and terror whipped through her, although she could not grasp why. And then the figure held out its hand and all she could see was a shard of magical bluestone; the bluestone that she had lost.

  An eerie trickle of familiarity caused the hairs to rise on the back of her neck. She couldn’t think why this scene was familiar, and yet it clawed through her soul as if the fact she had forgotten was somehow shocking.

  A vision.

  But a vision of what? Of whom?

  Gwydion. The name brushed through
her mind like the scuttle of spider legs. But why would that great god come to her, a mere acolyte? And why did she have this overwhelming urge to accept the opium from Tacitus when her injury didn’t warrant it even when she acknowledged it still pained her?

  The uneasy notion that Gwydion was sending her a message haunted her mind. But she knew she was mistaken. He was not a god who wasted his time with a Druid who was not one of his Chosen.

  “Nimue.” Tacitus’ voice was sharp and she looked at him, her thoughts still racing through her mind. Before she could stop herself, she wrapped her hand around his wrist.

  “I’ve lost my bluestone, Tacitus.” The words were out before she could prevent them, but strangely she didn’t regret them. Perhaps, as remote as the possibility could be, Tacitus might somehow find the sacred shard.

  He stared at her as if she had lost her mind. “Your bluestone?”

  She took a deep breath. Understanding illuminated her mind as the strange vision of Gwydion suddenly became clear. Why else had Arianrhod sent her brother god to her at this precise moment, with the bluestone in his hand if not to show Nimue that Tacitus could help?

  “It’s very precious to me.” Her voice cracked and she hastily cleared her throat. “Is it possible one of your men might have found it?” After I was shot?

  An odd expression crossed his face. At any other time, she might have thought it was guilt, but what did Tacitus have to be guilty about her bluestone?

  “I took a sharp stone from one of your pouches. It looked very much like part of a broken weapon to me.” His frown was formidable but instead of outrage that he had taken her bluestone, relief washed through her and she laughed.

  It was safe. She hadn’t lost it. Surely now Arianrhod would come to her?

  Tacitus cursed under his breath and pushed himself from the bed. “I trust you won’t slit my throat with it if I return your precious bluestone.”

  “It’s a sacred shard, Tacitus. It’s never occurred to me to use it as a weapon before now.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” His tone was skeptical but the smoldering glance he threw her way caused her pussy to quiver. She watched him march to his casket, unlock it and then search inside. But her attention slipped and instead she admired the poetic play of his muscles, his firm sculpted flesh and irresistible backside that she had the extraordinary desire to bite.

  She licked her lips and tried to order her thoughts. But they would not be ordered. Any more than the insidious need to take the opium could be scrubbed from her mind. Yet, for some reason she couldn’t fathom, the opium and the vision were somehow linked.

  As Tacitus stood and turned back to her, holding two leather pouches in his hand, the answer struck her. On special days dedicated to the gods, the greatest of Druids would prepare sacred concoctions known only to the Elders. During the ritualistic celebrations they would ascend into trance and mingle with the deities and then return with great wisdom to impart.

  Awe unfurled in her breast as she watched Tacitus sit on the bed and open the largest pouch. She had only just started to learn the power of such magical potions when the Romans had invaded. She knew it was dangerous to attempt such a connection without proper training and support. But suppose Gwydion had just delivered a second sign from her beloved Goddess? A sign that she should take this Roman opium so that she could commune with Arianrhod in an elevated sphere?

  “Here.” Tacitus tipped the bluestone onto her palm and she closed her fingers over it, relishing how the jagged edges bit into her flesh. Why hadn’t she searched his casket more thoroughly the other day?

  Tacitus untied the smallest pouch. “There isn’t much,” he said, frowning at the hidden contents. “Marcellus is uncommonly miserly when it comes to his precious medications.”

  Nimue hesitated for a moment and then threaded her fingers through his. “Could I save it until my need is greater?” She wasn’t lying. But if Tacitus assumed her need involved pain from her injury instead of communing in the higher realms with her Goddess that was scarcely her fault. She needed to persuade him to let her have the opium. Somehow, the thought of taking it from his locked casket, after he left her the following day, didn’t feel right anymore.

  He weighed the pouch in the palm of his hand and gave her a smile that tugged at her heart. She didn’t bother trying to deny it. There was no need. She liked this Roman, despite all the reasons why she shouldn’t. But that fact wouldn’t blind her to the truth or what she needed to accomplish.

  “Can I trust you not to poison me in my sleep?”

  She smiled back. She couldn’t help herself and again she had to forcibly remember that he was her enemy. “Yes. Why do you so readily assume I wish to kill you? I have no desire to be handed over to your commanding officer for committing such a crime.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.” He placed the pouch on her thigh. “It would be an ignoble end, even for me.”

  “Even for you?” His enigmatic comment intrigued her more than the contents of the pouch and she stared at him, trying and failing not to become ensnared by his eyes or his smile or—everything about him. “A mighty warrior from Rome?” Contempt edged her words but it was faint, insubstantial. Because her contempt was for Rome, not for this warrior even though she knew, logically, the two were intrinsically entwined.

  “Is that how you see me, Nimue?” Far from appearing insulted by her barbed words he looked anything but. “A mighty warrior from Rome?”

  Goddess, he was laughing at her again. Did all Romans possess this sense of irreverence, or was it peculiar to Tacitus?

  Or was it simply something corrupt within her blood that found him so irresistible?

  That possibility stung, but not as much as it should. She ignored it, as she had ignored so many things since she’d been captured. There would be time enough later, after she’d completed her mission, to repent of such oversights.

  “What else can you be?” And then, although she knew she shouldn’t continue this conversation because of its inherent dangers, she couldn’t stop herself. “What do you see when you look at me, Tacitus?”

  A lazy smile tilted his lips as he proceeded to scrutinize her from her tangled hair to her bare toes. She told herself it was not the scrutiny of a master to his slave and convinced herself with little difficulty. How easily she could delude herself when it came to Tacitus.

  “I see a beautiful woman who looks in sore need of nourishment.”

  What else had she expected? That he would look beyond his Roman prejudices and see her for who she truly was?

  She didn’t want him to see her as she truly was. If he ever did, it would be her death sentence. Yet her emotions warred within her breast, and she couldn’t fathom what it was she really wanted.

  For Tacitus to acknowledge her warrior strength? When she had just admitted that her injury still pained her? No wonder he thought she was a weak woman, akin to the milk-blooded Roman females.

  Yet that was exactly what she wanted him to believe. The Gaul had told her it was her only weapon, and the longer she remained under Roman rule the more she accepted its truth. No matter how it jarred her senses.

  Except she didn’t want Tacitus to believe that of her. She didn’t want to lie to him, even by omission. Yet if she didn’t stop such treacherous thoughts from polluting her mind then how could she hope to summon the conditions necessary in order to launch her rescue?

  “I am hungry.” It was the truth but it sounded like a confession of weakness. She glared at the pouch on her thigh so Tacitus couldn’t see the confusion in her eyes. “Tacitus, am I permitted to leave your quarters during the day?”

  When he didn’t answer straightaway she looked up at him, and caught a bemused expression on his face. As if he couldn’t understand her sudden shift in conversation.

  She should have been more subtle. Stoked his ego, bolstered his pride and then made her request when he was thoroughly convinced she was as harmless and incapable as he clearly suspected she might
be.

  But she couldn’t do it. It was one thing to gain his trust so she achieved freedom of movement. But it was, she had discovered, quite another to forcibly subdue her nature in order to deliberately misdirect him.

  “Why do you want to leave my quarters?”

  So I can discover where you’re keeping the Briton queen and princess. It was the overriding truth, but it wasn’t the only reason. And while she couldn’t tell Tacitus her primary motivation, she could share her other reasons without betraying her loyalty.

  “I’m not used to—” She hesitated, suddenly unsure whether she wanted to share this particular confession. But Tacitus remained silent, remained focused on her, and in the end what did it matter what she confessed if it achieved her aim? “Being confined inside for such extended lengths of time.”

  “I fear my quarters don’t extend to a private courtyard for your use.” For some reason that appeared to irk him, as if the lack of a courtyard—whatever that might be—reflected badly on him. “I didn’t forget my promise to take you for a walk this evening, Nimue. But I was unavoidably detained.”

  She should be offended at the way he assumed she needed to be taken for a walk. But his obvious irritation at the fact he had broken his word charmed her. Not least because he had actually recalled making such a promise.

  “I wasn’t suggesting you’d broken your word.” How odd she could say such a thing to him and mean it. “But I’m used to being active all day. I fear I may lose my mind if all I see all day are these walls and ceiling pressing down on me.”

  The words were out before she could prevent them and she stared at him, appalled at how easily she had let him see her vulnerability. Yet it was true. No matter how magnificent Tacitus’ quarters were—and she had to admit, the intricately patterned stonework floors and astonishing proportions of the rooms were like nothing she had ever imagined before—they still confined her.