The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  “Haven’t you noticed, Tacitus?” Still the commander stared into the sky apparently fascinated by the blackness. “There’s been no sign of the moon since we crushed Caratacus. The Celts’ gods do not rest easy.”

  Tacitus had an instant vision of the exquisite engravings on Nimue’s silver jewelry and the embroidery of her bag. They showed the passage of the moon. He knew she worshipped Arianrhod, the Celt goddess of the moon. Against his better judgment, he followed his commander’s gaze. The sky loomed, dark and ominous, without a single pinprick of distant light.

  “In time they too will succumb to the gods of Rome.” It was an automatic answer; one he didn’t fully believe in. How could he, when he favored the gods of Greece over the gods of his forefathers?

  The commander was silent for so long Tacitus thought the conversation over, and silent relief washed through him. He didn’t want to think about the Celtic gods or the Celtic priests and priestesses who communed with them. Yet it seemed everything reminded him of Nimue.

  “Will they?” The commander turned his brooding gaze to Tacitus. “Should they?”

  Unease prickled the outer edges of his mind. Was his commander uttering a rhetorical question?

  “Go back to your Celt.” It was a command and Tacitus stiffened, every sense on full alert. “Enjoy her while you can, Tacitus. And when the time comes, remember your pledge. Bring her to me and I’ll pay whatever you demand—for her manumission.”

  Chapter 30

  Once again, Nimue ate the eve’s meal by herself. It was served to her in a frosty silence but she couldn’t blame Tacitus’ servants for their attitude. Not after what she’d done to one of their own. The seamstress hadn’t come near her since that morn, two days ago.

  She pushed her half-eaten meal away. Tacitus had barely come near her since he’d dragged her away from his commander. My father. She still couldn’t think of him in that way without her stomach knotting and breath strangling her throat. In her heart she knew it wasn’t a coincidence. They had been destined to meet by the gods. But whose gods? Hers?

  Or his?

  She sat on the edge of Tacitus’ casket and attempted to regulate her breathing. She’d wondered how he’d react when he discovered her betrayal. She had never imagined witnessing it firsthand.

  The reality was far worse than anything her mind had conjured. He hadn’t yelled at her. Beaten or berated her. If he had, she might have convinced herself that she didn’t love him. But if Tacitus had been the kind of man to whip or brutalize her, then she would never have fallen in love with him in the first place.

  Nimue had prayed, begged, that somehow she could see Tacitus again when her mission was over. And her wish had been granted. She had seen Tacitus again. And failed, with spectacular disgrace, in her pledge to save the Briton queen and her daughter from slavery.

  For two days, she’d wallowed in self-recrimination at her failure. For two days, she had reeled between shock and reluctant fascination at the discovery of her father. For two torturous days and nights, she had battled the hopeless realization of how deeply she’d fallen for her Roman captor.

  She couldn’t—wouldn’t—continue this way. She had no idea what Tacitus intended to do with her. When he took her in the dead of night, he never said a word, although her foolish heart imagined that his touch and his lips told her everything she secretly desired.

  He had taken from her the means to prevent conception and yet he always ensured he used his Roman condom. As if even now, when she knew how deeply he despised her, he still afforded her enough consideration to respect her wishes that she didn’t want to conceive his child.

  She brushed the tips of her fingertips across her belly. Arianrhod had turned her back on her, but her Moon Goddess had prevented her from taking the womb cleansing tea two morns ago for a reason.

  Despite all their precautions, she had conceived his babe. It had been foretold in her vision; blessed by Arianrhod. And although only days ago such an outcome would have devastated Nimue, now the prospect of having Tacitus’ child filled her with a maelstrom of primal love, protectiveness and an overwhelming sense of awe.

  Was this how her mother had felt when she knew she had conceived Nimue? Twenty-three summers ago the Romans had not yet invaded Britain, but Gaul had already succumbed to the Eagle. The Romans wouldn’t have been her mother’s deadly enemy the same way they were hers. But even so, they were foreign barbarians and the threat of the Legions crossing the narrow sea into Britain was always an acknowledged threat.

  Why hadn’t her mother told her Roman lover that she was expecting his babe? Could Nimue do that to Tacitus? Didn’t he deserve to know they had created a child together?

  She knew he did.

  Nimue straightened her spine. Even though she had failed to save Caratacus’ queen, she had saved a dozen of her people from a similar fate. No rumor had reached her that they had been recaptured. She could only hope they had reached the relative safety of the enclave.

  She’d spent enough time berating her failures. She had to re-strategize. Make alternate plans for escape.

  Not only for her unborn child, whom she would never allow to be born under the slur of slave. But because she had to return to the enclave and complete the circle so her people were protected.

  And the Romans destroyed?

  How dearly she had once wished to unravel the mystery of the powerful Source of Annwyn. To continue the work of the great High Druid, Aeron, in his plans to eliminate the enemy from her land. But she not only possessed the blood of her enemy. She had fallen in love with one too.

  She spread her fingers across her thighs and tried to calm her galloping thoughts. Was there a way to protect her people without decimating the Legion? Could Gwydion, Warrior Magician and god of Illusion be swayed in Arianrhod’s ultimate desire? Would he intervene with his sister goddess and grant Nimue a concession for returning the last shard of bluestone to the enclave, for conducting the sacred rituals required?

  The lamplight flickered, although no breeze stirred the air, and unnatural shadows lengthened across the far wall. Mesmerized, Nimue watched the shadows swirl into the unmistakable outline of a man—a god. A god whose eyes glowed like fire; a god who reached out his hand, palm up, acquiescing her request.

  The door swung open and the shadows vanished back into the dark corners. Nimue stared up at Tacitus as he stood in the doorway, his scarlet cloak billowing around him. Awe filled her at the power of the mighty god. He had not only condescended to save the one she loved from the coming destruction. He had reinforced the strength of his power by sending Tacitus to her now.

  * * *

  Tacitus braced himself against the enchanting look Nimue cast his way. Her beautiful green eyes showed no trace of deception and, dressed in the manner of a Roman noblewoman, any man could be forgiven for thinking her a fragile creature in need of protection.

  She was in need of protection. But not because she was incapable of looking after herself. He glared at her, willed himself to see beyond her delicate features and aura of vulnerability to the Druid he knew her to be.

  Druids were bloodthirsty barbarians who sacrificed babes on the altars of their heathen gods. They incited fear and madness among their followers and were behind the uprisings against the Empire.

  But all he saw when he looked at Nimue was the woman who haunted his waking hours and beguiled his dreams with the aid of an infatuated Morpheus.

  He kicked the door shut. “Why?” The word tore from his throat, unbidden. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking.

  She stood and faced him, as regal as an empress or a barbaric foreign queen. He tried to imagine her wielding a dagger over a helpless child to appease her goddess—and couldn’t.

  “Would you do anything less for your people, Tacitus?”

  Why did she have to throw logic in his face? Why couldn’t she fall to her knees and weep with despair like another woman would, or beg for his forgiveness and tell him that she’d never had an
y intention of leaving him without saying a word?

  He ground his teeth at such fantasy. And bitterly acknowledged that if Nimue was such a woman, they wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.

  “What were you doing with the commander?” That overheard conversation had plagued his mind countless times, but he still couldn’t fathom why they had been in that room together or how they had been talking of Nimue’s mother. Most of all he couldn’t fathom why the commander hadn’t exposed Nimue’s heritage. It was inconceivable that he hadn’t made the connection between the crucifixion of a Celtic noblewoman and the likelihood that she’d also been a Druid.

  For a moment, he didn’t think she was going to answer him. Then she drew in a deep breath, as if coming to a decision. “He was waiting in there for me.”

  Tacitus had suspected as much, but if that was so, it pointed to the fact that the commander had somehow been aware of Nimue’s intentions. And that made no sense at all. Surely his commander didn’t want Nimue in his bed enough to compromise his integrity?

  The way I’m prepared to compromise mine?

  He wanted to grip her shoulders, shake her, demand to know why was he waiting for you? But he feared that she would tell him. Once the words were spoken aloud how could he continue to ignore the truth?

  Yet he knew that he would.

  “Tacitus.” She took a step toward him and he forced himself to remain as he was and not drag her into his arms. Why did he still find her so irresistible? His lust for her hadn’t eased. It increased every time he took her. Every time he thought of her. He wanted to despise her; discard and forget her and knew he never could.

  “What?” His voice was harsh but she didn’t flinch. She never flinched. His mind flashed back to the scene with his commander when Nimue had trembled violently in his arms. She’d witnessed the crucifixion of her mother. Had likely escaped the same fate by sheer good fortune. Why would she flinch when a hated Roman raised his voice to her?

  “What’s going to happen to us?”

  Her question threw him. She hadn’t asked what was going to happen to her, which he’d expected. But when did Nimue ever do or say what he expected of her?

  “Us?” Derision soaked the word but it was a derision aimed at his own despicable need to keep Nimue in his life. “There is no us, Nimue. What gave you that idea? You belong to me and that’s the end of it.”

  If only that was the end of it. Yet even now, after everything she’d done, the knowledge that in the eyes of Rome she was nothing more than his slave tore his guts.

  But even that faded into insignificance when he faced the bitter truth. If he wanted to keep her, that was how she would have to remain. Because she would never willingly stay with him as his concubine.

  The truth was stark, brutal and flayed his sense of honor. In the end, when it truly mattered, he was no better than his father.

  For a brief moment he thought he saw raw anguish in her eyes as if his dismissal of what they had between them genuinely wounded her. But what did they have between them?

  Nothing but lust and sex. The intimate touches, the laughing glances and stimulating banter they’d shared before her betrayal had gone. He despised the fact that he missed it all; that he craved to once again be shocked and challenged and enchanted by her unorthodox conversation.

  “No.” Her voice was soft but it wasn’t the voice of a woman cowed or beaten by circumstance. For that at least he could thank whichever gods were responsible. “It’s not the end of it, Tacitus. No matter how dearly you wish it could be.”

  Still she defied him. He tried to crush the admiration that snaked through him for her courage, and failed. Because she had always shown courage and it was one of the aspects about her that so ensnared him.

  Curse her Druid blood. He wanted to reclaim what they had once shared, but it was impossible. If he gave her the slightest taste of freedom, she would vanish like mist in the morning.

  “I wish for nothing more than you learn your place, Nimue.” Rage and despair at where they now stood pounded through his blood, thundered through his mind. No other woman had ever weaved such a mystical spell around him. Her heritage meant death but he didn’t care about her heritage. He wanted her. And he wanted her to choose to stay with him because she couldn’t stand the thought of existing without him.

  But the only way to make her stay was to keep her enslaved.

  How low he had sunk in so short a time. All his life he’d prided himself on denying his father’s way of life. Tacitus didn’t buy slaves for sexual gratification. The prospect revolted him. Yet he stood before Nimue and couldn’t stomach the idea of letting her go.

  He was truly his father’s son. The knowledge sickened him, but still he would keep her. He would keep her until she forgot about her need to escape, her desire for revenge. He would keep her until Olympus itself crumbled to dust.

  “Tacitus—”

  “I have no intention of releasing you. You can’t be trusted outside my quarters and therefore you will not venture outside my quarters.” He glared at her, daring her to disagree, willing her to say I’m sorry.

  Silence crackled between them, their gazes locked in a mute battle of wills. Finally she tilted her jaw at him, a proud gesture that he recognized, and pain stabbed through his heart.

  “Perhaps you’ll allow me to venture outside your quarters if you accompany me.”

  He had the sudden vision of them riding across the Cambrian countryside, unencumbered by the chains of their pasts or the dark clouds of their present. It was dangerously seductive.

  “I doubt it.”

  He watched blood heat her cheeks but she didn’t look angry at his refusal to succumb to her Druid-inspired charms. She looked hurt.

  “Perhaps in time you’ll change your mind.” She sounded as though she struggled to keep her voice calm, and he clenched his fists in an effort to prevent himself from reaching for her and dragging her into his arms. Did he have no self-control when it came to Nimue? “I give you my word, on the names of my beloved foremothers, that I wouldn’t attempt to escape from you.”

  “Why should your word mean anything to me?” She had once before given him her word. And she had broken it.

  But she hadn’t pledged her honor on the names of her beloved foremothers. Did he really believe that made so much difference?

  Again, silence stretched between them, and an unaccountable trickle of unease stirred deep in his gut. Why did she look at him as though there was something she wanted to tell him? Why didn’t she simply say what was on her mind? She had never thought twice of doing so…before.

  The tip of her tongue peeked between her lips but with that same sense of unease he was certain she didn’t do it to be provocative. There was a strangely haunted air about her that hadn’t been present just moments ago, and he recalled what she’d said to him when they had first arrived back at the garrison.

  She wasn’t used to being confined inside for extended lengths of time. Was it possible she might truly lose her mind if he denied her freedom?

  “I pledged my word to the Briton king, Caratacus, to protect his queen and daughter before I ever met you.” She continued to gaze at him and he knew what she was saying. But he didn’t want to hear it. “As a warrior, my oath is my bond, Tacitus. I had to release my people and, although I failed to save the queen, I didn’t do any of it with the intention of abusing your trust in me.”

  “And yet you did abuse my trust.”

  “You would have done the same in my place.”

  He stared at her, momentarily speechless. Did she really think their positions could ever be comparable?

  She called herself a warrior, but simply because she knew how to wield a dagger and possessed bravery to the point of self-sacrifice didn’t qualify her as such in his mind. Gods, next she would tell him that she’d been part of the battle itself.

  He knew it had been the Druids who’d led the uprisings against the Legions when they’d first marched int
o Cambria. But they were male Druids. And any woman who followed her man into battle had to be built like a man herself. How else could she survive?

  “What I would have done is irrelevant.” He swung off his cloak so he had an excuse to break eye contact. They might no longer share the level of intimacy he craved, but it appeared Nimue was still capable of challenging his long-held beliefs with her conversation. “I’m a Roman Tribune. My loyalty lies with my Emperor, with Rome and with my family honor.”

  The words sounded hollow to his ears. Because by keeping Nimue from harm he had irrevocably betrayed all such loyalties.

  “We’re not so different, you and I.” Her softly spoken words hammered through his mind but he refused to acknowledge them. She was a woman, not a warrior. Her loyalties were, by virtue of her sex, different from a man’s.

  Black guilt gnawed through his heart. For his actions in protecting Nimue from his Emperor’s decree, did he still possess the right to call himself a warrior?

  “Tacitus.” She curled her fingers around his wrist, and her touch sent desperate need splintering through his blood. He turned to her and once again became lost in her beautiful eyes. “Can you put this behind us? Could you not learn to trust me again, in time?”

  If she continued to look at him with her deceptively innocent eyes then gods help him. He’d agree to anything that poured from her lying mouth. He pulled free from her grasp before he was tempted to lose himself in the scented sanctuary of her arms.

  Except he was lost already.

  He turned his back. In time, he feared he would forgive her for anything and everything. But now was not the moment to let her know just how far he had fallen under her Druid spell.

  “If not for me,” her quiet voice, filled with such sadness it made his chest ache, halted his planned exit, “then for the sake of our unborn child.”