The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  Slowly, provocatively, she worked her way down his warrior hard body, exploring every ridge and contour with the tip of her tongue and graze of her teeth. Her nails scraped along his back and he jerked toward her but his fists remained clenched at his thighs.

  She sank to her knees and looked up at him, feminine power thudding through her blood at the look of enslavement on Tacitus’ face. “Your self-control is admirable, Roman.” Her voice was breathless and her gaze slid down to his glorious erection. She wasn’t so sure of her own control. “I have no need of enchantment.”

  “You enchant with every word you utter. With every look you give me.” His voice was hoarse. “I’ve never met another woman like you, Nimue.”

  Her fingers dug into his taut buttocks at the thought that he might ever meet another woman. A woman he came back to every eve. A woman he shared his meals with, laughed with.

  Trusted.

  In the eyes of Rome, she was Tacitus’ slave but she knew full well that he didn’t consider her such. She was a Celt, and her people had been conquered. That was an irrefutable fact. But he treated her as if she was, as much as a woman ever could be to a Roman, his equal.

  “And I have never met another man like you.” She wrapped her arms around his thigh and pressed her body against his leg. Her sex throbbed with unfulfilled need but her need would have to wait. “I know I never will.” Such confession would never have passed her lips in normal circumstances, but these were far from normal. And although tomorrow he might believe she had done nothing but lie to him, perhaps one day he would realize that in this matter she had spoken only the truth.

  Slowly she raked her fingernails along the back of his thigh and down his calf. His fingers tangled in her hair, forcing her to look up at him.

  “Gods, Nimue. What are you doing?” His eyes were glazed with lust and a frown marred his brow as though he couldn’t imagine why a woman would be on her knees before him unless she was taking him into her mouth.

  “Driving you to distraction.” She slid the tip of her tongue across his knee and fought the urge to giggle at the look of astonishment on his face. Then she bit him and savored his taste before dragging her fingernails up from his ankle and over the taut muscle of his calf.

  “You’re seducing my leg.” He sounded scandalized, but it didn’t disguise the desire thundering through every word. “Is this a barbaric Celtic love ritual?”

  Her foolish heart catapulted at his mention of love. But it was just a word, the same as barbaric was just a word, and he didn’t mean anything by it.

  “No, it’s my own ritual. Has no other woman ever made love to your leg before?”

  His fingers tightened in her hair and she relished the sparks of pain that danced across her scalp. Almost as much as she relished the look of amazement on his face.

  “No woman has ever done the things you have to me. You could be a maiden of Aphrodite herself.”

  She molded her body around him, her thighs entrapping his calf, and delighted in the scrape of his hair against her belly and breasts. “And is Aphrodite your goddess of sensual pleasure?”

  His fingers massaged her head in a seductive rhythm that sent shudders of desire along her spine. “She is the Greek goddess of love.” His voice was raw with need but he didn’t haul her to her feet or throw her onto her back. Although she acknowledged she wouldn’t mind if he did either, the fact that he didn’t caused her chest to contract with a strange pain. “My mother is Greek.” The words were tortured, as though he confessed to something outrageous. Yet she already knew his mother wasn’t Roman. Otherwise he would worship the gods of Rome.

  But he clearly thought it important. And because he’d shared something with her, she wanted to share something with him.

  “My father is from Gaul.” It had always distressed her that her despised father’s lineage meant she was not a pureblood of Cymru but oddly, now that she knew Tacitus was not a pureblood Roman, her tainted heritage no longer seemed so devastating. “But I worship the gods of my foremothers.”

  His smile was fractured. “Does your father still live?” He sounded as though it took great effort for him to ask the question. As if his thoughts inhabited another sphere entirely.

  She slid her hand up his leg. Tantalizingly close to his impressive erection. She discovered she couldn’t tear her fascinated gaze away. “I don’t know.” And she didn’t care whether her cursed father was alive or dead. In this moment, all she cared about was bringing Tacitus to his knees. The image was alluring.

  She abandoned his thigh and brushed her knuckles along the length of his cock. With every featherlight touch, his girth increased and her mouth watered with anticipation.

  “I take back what I said about this being a Celtic love ritual.” Tacitus’ fingers, buried in her hair, were painful against her head. “It’s a form of torture. What secrets are you searching for, Nimue?”

  “I seek nothing from you.” Her fingers trailed across his taut sac and his groan vibrated through his body and sent tremors racing along her arm and across her breasts. She struggled to recall his question, could barely form the words to reply. “That you don’t willingly want to give.”

  “Do you know what I want to give you right at this moment?” His voice was rough, as rough as his fingers in her hair and she gave a breathless laugh.

  “You’re still under my command, Roman.” She cradled his heavy balls in the palm of her hand, loving their texture, loving the tension she could feel radiating from Tacitus’ rigid stance. Intoxicated by his raw, masculine scent, she lowered her head and licked her delicious prize.

  He tasted of every forbidden fantasy she had ever imagined. He tasted of Tacitus.

  She closed her eyes and gently sucked him into her mouth and his guttural curse spiraled through her senses. Without conscious thought, she wrapped her hand around his hot shaft, and the knowledge that he was at her mercy thrilled her soul.

  Slowly she released him from her mouth, her teeth scraping his taut sac, and then teased the tip of her tongue across his hard balls to the root of his cock. She looked up at him as she trailed her tongue along his rigid length, and the look of pleasured agony on his face was breathtaking. She had never imagined kneeling at a man’s feet before. Yet not only was she on her knees before this Roman—she reveled in the juxtaposition of power and submission that caused her nipples to harden and cream to trickle from her pussy.

  He swore violently in Latin, words she barely understood. Without warning, his fingers dug into her biceps, his grasp hard and possessive. He hauled her up, and his cock burned a path across her breasts and belly. She flattened her hands against his chest, breathless and aroused but determined to finish what she’d started.

  “I didn’t give you leave to manhandle me, Roman.”

  His grin was feral. “Consider this a mutiny, Celt. I’m the one in command now.”

  “Is that so?” She tried to sound fierce but his entrancing eyes, dark with passion, were too distracting. It was hard to remember what they were even talking about. “What punishment should I levy against you for such a crime?”

  He wrapped one arm around her and pinned her to his body. His erection dug into her flesh, hot and unyielding and her clit throbbed with need. He leaned into her, forcing her backward, and she felt him swipe the contents from the table behind her.

  “I look forward to my punishment.” His hand, splayed around her waist, was hard and possessive. “In the meantime, I intend to enjoy yours.”

  His words ignited what remained of her sanity and she gripped his shoulders to keep her balance. “My punishment?” Illicit tremors rocked her. “You would not dare punish me, Roman—”

  Her words caught in her throat as Tacitus flashed her a smile that surely Taranis, the god of thunder and lightning, would envy for its destructive intent.

  He swung her about and forced her over the table. She staggered and glared up at him. His smile sizzled and his palm, pressed between her shoulder blades, render
ed her immobile.

  “You will find I dare many things, Celt.” He leaned over her back, his body encompassing her in a mantle of masculine strength and she wriggled her bottom against his hard thighs. It served only to heighten the need spiraling through her pussy and a frustrated moan razed her throat.

  He laughed, as though her evident discomfort pleased him. Curse the man. Her fingernails dug into the table and scored the timber but it did nothing to ease the thunder in her blood.

  She felt him ease back, his hand running along the length of her spine in a caress designed to enflame. She could push herself upright now if she wished. But she remained as she was, sprawled across the table like a pleasure slave.

  “Your obedience is welcome.” Tacitus’ voice was uneven but she heard the thread of amusement. “Although your continued silence is somewhat unnerving.”

  Her breasts and the side of her face were flattened against the table, and she could only partially see Tacitus from the corner of her eye. But she knew he was looking at her, splayed across the table, naked and vulnerable and Goddess knew, ready for whatever he planned to give her.

  “Would you have me scream for mercy?” Her words were breathless. Her chest tight and her heart thundered with erratic abandon.

  He didn’t answer. But his hands molded the curve of her waist and the flare of her hips. And then with slow deliberation he palmed her bottom.

  Nimue hitched in a ragged gasp. In her mind’s eye, she saw Tacitus as he looked at her. His hands spreading her arse cheeks, exposing her to his intimate exploration. Lightning flashed through her belly, ricocheted along her wet cleft and flickered with delicious need in the tight bud of her clit. She squirmed helplessly, her hands fisting on the table. How much longer can I bear this? But Tacitus continued to look at her in silence until the scream she’d threatened hovered with perilous intent in her throat.

  His finger slid between her spread thighs and teased the wet folds of her sex. A desperate moan filled the room and she scarcely cared that it came from her. “Tacitus.” It was a plea and she twisted her head around as much as she could so she could see his face properly. His focus was intent between her legs, and his finger slid farther and caressed her throbbing clit.

  “Yes.” His voice was savage and she had no idea what he meant. “Scream for mercy, Nimue. Scream for me.”

  Wild abandonment seared through her and she caught his intense gaze. “Make me.”

  Her taunt had the desired effect. He gripped her hips, jerked her toward him and for one glorious moment his erection jammed against her backside. He caressed her hip and thigh and teased her bottom with the tips of his fingers, and she squirmed helplessly beneath him.

  Her clit throbbed with need, her pussy trembled with anticipation. She felt him grip his cock and cream trickled from her cleft onto her thighs. The head of his rigid shaft nudged her wet entrance and her moan echoed around the room.

  With one hard thrust, he filled her and the air rushed from her lungs. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel the way he stretched her, claimed her, made her his.

  She closed her eyes, fisted her hands and reveled in the way Tacitus slammed into her. Hard, rhythmic, the friction against her sensitized clit all but unbearable as he pounded against her exposed bottom.

  His hands roamed over her back and shoulders, tangled in her hair and clasped her throat. Ribbons of fire ignited wherever he touched. She writhed beneath him, incapable of coherent thought, incapable of processing anything but the pleasure his hands and fingers and cock wrought on her nipples, breasts and inside her quivering pussy.

  “Do you surrender?” His uneven words rasped against her ear. “Beg for mercy and give yourself to me?”

  How couldn’t he know that she was already his? The thought drifted through her mind, weaved through the lust and passion and the truth of it seeped into her soul.

  Of course she was his. She would forever be his.

  “I will never,” she panted, “surrender to Rome.”

  He rained kisses across her shoulder, along her throat. His teeth nipped her flesh, and then licked each pinprick of pain with the tip of his tongue. She could die of such pleasurable torture.

  “To Hades with the Eagle.” He sucked on her flesh, and a strangled moan vibrated throughout her body, quivering her swollen clit, erect nipples and every tender particle of skin she possessed. “Surrender to me, Nimue. Be mine.”

  His words fueled the maelstrom of desire consuming her reason. There was no Cymru, no Rome; no deadly mission that would forever rip Tacitus from her arms. There was only now, this ethereal forever.

  The last remnant of sanity shattered. “Yes.” It was a hoarse gasp that flayed her throat. The scent of sex and foreign spices filled her senses as she convulsed around his pounding cock. A scream shattered the lust-drenched air. Her scream of surrender, of betrayal, of a love that could never be. “Tacitus.”

  Chapter 27

  Wrapped in the cloak Tacitus had acquired for her, Nimue stood at the door of his quarters and watched him march across the wide Roman road that ran through the center of the fortification. A deep ache lodged in her heart as she committed this last sight of him to memory.

  He didn’t glance back at her. She hadn’t expected him to. A Roman didn’t do such things in public. But how she wished that he had.

  She missed his smile and his bewitching eyes already.

  Slowly she closed the door and for a moment rested her forehead against the timber as a wave of dizziness washed through her. This morn, she would once again claim the mantle of her heritage and act as the warrior she was.

  Her interlude as the plaything of a Roman officer was over. She had no right to feel so torn about her path. She’d had no right to fall in love with her enemy, her captor, the man who embodied everything she had always despised most in the world.

  She straightened, and for a moment felt as ancient as if she had witnessed a hundred summers instead of merely twenty-two. After this day, she would never see Tacitus again. If they ever met in the future, she would be his deadly enemy and this time he wouldn’t be blinded by her apparent fragility or the fact she was a woman. He would see her for what she was. And he would crucify her for it.

  A shudder racked her body as she turned and made her way to the room he called the kitchen. Whether she succeeded or failed in her mission—and failure wasn’t an option—Tacitus would never again welcome her into his arms. But oh, great Arianrhod of the Silver Wheel of Birth, Death and Rebirth, she would give anything—do anything—if only there could be a way for her and Tacitus to be together when all this was over.

  * * *

  As she waited for her herbs to steep so she could make the womb-cleansing tea for herself and the other captive women, she prepared a second brew containing the sleep-inducing herbs. Her plan was simple. Before she spoke to the women, she would offer the alternate brew to the guard. If he declined, it would be an annoyance but she had a backup in place.

  Surreptitiously she glanced around the kitchen. Tacitus’ orders to his servants that she be allowed free rein in his kitchen were clearly being observed, but she was being ignored as if she didn’t exist. Another time that fact might have irked her, but now it gave her nothing but relief.

  Stealthily she placed one of Tacitus’ brooches, or fibula as he called them, onto the table. It was made of silver and was decorated with precious gems, and guilt ate through her at how readily he had given it to her this morn when she’d admired it. Gritting her teeth, she inserted a third, potent, combination of the sleeping drugs into the shallow groove of the brooch where the pin would normally rest. Usually a more lethal concoction was used with darts but since she didn’t have the necessary means to make a blowpipe this would have to do. For while she could easily knock the seamstress unconscious, she couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself in hand-to-hand combat with a fully trained legionary. She would have to rely on her speed, and the legionary’s ignorance of her purpo
se, in order to stab the sleeping drugs into his bloodstream.

  Carefully she slipped her weapon into a small leather pouch and tied it at her waist. Another quick glance around the kitchen confirmed that her actions had raised no suspicions. She poured herself a cup of the cleansing tea and filled a long-necked jug with the rest of the liquid.

  With a sigh, she picked up her cup and raised it to her lips. And then she froze as an eerie shiver trickled along the back of her neck. Why did this feel wrong? The chill invaded the pit of her stomach as a dreadful thought occurred to her. Had she made a mistake with the ingredients or the special balance required?

  Surely not. She’d made this many times in the past and the recipe was ingrained in her mind, along with every other remedy she had ever learned over the years. Although she’d never taken it herself before now, she was absolutely certain she had made no error.

  So why can’t I bring myself to drink it?

  She was approaching the fertile quarter of her moon cycle. Although the chance she’d conceived last night wasn’t high, neither was it impossible. To prevent even the smallest chance that Tacitus’ seed might bear fruit she owed it to her people and her Goddess to drink this tea.

  Yet she remained motionless, as her stomach roiled with sudden nausea as a treacherous thought slid through her mind. Did she actively want to ensure that she didn’t conceive Tacitus’ child?

  Could she truly curse her unborn babe to such a despised heritage?

  Except she didn’t despise Tacitus. And the notion of having his child didn’t disgust her.

  Far from it.

  Before the thought finished forming, she swiftly poured the liquid back into the jug. Heart pounding, she sealed the top and waited long, agonizing moments before she could finish preparing the sleeping brew. Without another glance around the kitchen, as though the possibility of catching a servant’s eye might declare her guilt to all of Rome, she returned to the bedchamber.