“You’re wrong,” Nimue whispered. “She once told me she loved you with all her heart. I don’t know why she left but it wasn’t because you meant nothing to her.”
Tacitus tore his gaze from his commander and stared at Nimue. Her attention was fixed on the older man, and with a dread fascination, Tacitus once again looked at his commander. Something stabbed through his chest and the world tipped.
The first time he’d met Nimue there had been something familiar about her. He hadn’t known what, just that he’d had the strangest certainty that they’d met before.
They never had. But he knew why she looked familiar to him. It was because she possessed the same eyes as her father.
His commander.
“Shit.” The word slid out, unbidden. Nimue was the daughter of a high-ranking patrician. The blood of Rome flowed in her veins. Jagged thoughts ripped through his mind. If his commander acknowledged her as his daughter there was a good chance the Emperor would approve a marriage between Tacitus and Nimue.
But what were the chances of that? It wasn’t as if Nimue was a son.
“Do you have something to say, Tribune?” The commander rounded on him. “Or are you simply pissed that your magnanimous plans of using my daughter as your concubine are crumbling before your eyes?”
For a torturous moment, the vision of his seventeen half-sisters flashed through his mind. Noble blood ran through their veins, just as much as it did his. But in the eyes of Rome they were merely the bastards of freed slaves.
“At least I’ll acknowledge to the entire world that any child of Nimue’s is my child also. Son or daughter I would be proud to claim as mine.”
The commander heaved himself to his feet and glowered down at Tacitus. “I intend to acknowledge my daughter. And as her father I also intend to ensure she has everything that her status deserves.”
Nimue made a sound in the back of her throat and staggered to her feet. Tacitus kept his arm around her. She didn’t attempt to pull away although she did shoot him an exasperated glance.
“Your concern is touching.” She glanced at the commander—her father—then back at him. “But I have status of my own and don’t require the approval of Rome to do as I wish with my life.”
“Nevertheless, as my daughter, as my only child, you will receive it.” The way the commander looked at her, he obviously expected a fight. “Whether you choose to live in Rome or her provinces you will be accorded the respect due to your rank.”
Finally the words penetrated the seething thoughts pounding through Tacitus’ brain. The commander intended to recognize Nimue?
Nimue gave an odd smile, clearly touched by the commander’s orders. “If it means that much to you, then I accept. As long as you understand I’ll never be an obedient Roman daughter at the mercy of her father’s whims.”
“I would expect nothing less from the daughter of your mother.”
Nimue’s smile faded. “The people I freed—the people here this night. Will you pursue them?”
The commander’s jaw tightened before he let out a measured breath. “The escaped slaves will not be found. And nothing happened here tonight.”
Stunned, Tacitus stared at his commander. He had committed treason with his words, just as much as Tacitus had by refusing to voice his suspicions about Nimue. Slowly he turned to look at the woman who stood between them. The woman who united them in their betrayal against their Emperor’s decree.
Protocol demanded that his father choose Tacitus’ bride. That Tacitus sought approval from his prospective bride’s father before the woman herself was consulted.
To Hades with protocol. Once the commander officially adopted her, Nimue would be a Roman citizen. His father would be only too pleased to see an alliance between the two families. As for his commander, Tacitus had the suspicion he would do anything to ensure his daughter’s happiness.
The only obstacle, as far as he could see, was Nimue herself. She’d finally agreed to be his concubine. But he wanted so much more than that. He realized that he always had.
But what did she want?
He took her injured hand, and her skin felt dry like autumn leaves. He’d never imagined asking a woman such a question in the dead of night in the middle of a forest in a far flung province of the Empire. And yet, despite the looming presence of her father, the surroundings were perfect to ask Nimue the most important question of his life.
But the words were the hardest ones he’d ever spoken. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She looked up at him, his beautiful savage, and it was hard to breathe.
“Why?”
A section of his mind acknowledged the grunt of laughter from the commander, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from Nimue’s upturned face. Why? How could she ask him such a thing?
“Because you’re mine.” He glared at her and realized that was only half the reason. “And I am yours.”
She laid the palm of her uninjured hand against his heart. “You know I’m a Druid.” Her voice was soft. “I can’t change who I am. And I wouldn’t, even if I could.”
Finally the words were spoken aloud. It didn’t make any difference. “I would have you no other way.”
She leaned in toward him until their bodies all but touched, until their breath mingled and he could see surrender in her eyes. “Why, Tacitus?”
He should have known she would never surrender. Not until he offered her everything that he was. The words choked his throat but he forced them out regardless. “Because I love you.”
Her smile illuminated his soul and banished the dark corners in his heart forever. “Then I’m honored to take you as my husband, Tacitus.” She brushed her lips against his. “I love you, my brave Roman warrior.” And the look in her eyes wasn’t surrender at all. It was the promise of eternity.
* * *
Nimue held Tacitus’ arm as they left the forest. He was once again dressed as a Roman tribune and she had never seen such a magnificent warrior. On her other side strode her father, the man she’d hated for almost half her life, who had caused her self-respect to corrode since the night of her initiation. The man she was now prepared to acknowledge as her blood kin, because now she saw the truth. Her mother hadn’t betrayed her people. She had fallen in love and her warrior had been worthy.
A large owl swept by, so close Nimue felt the rush of feathers against her cheek. She gasped, followed its path as it soared into the sky and then stared, transfixed. The full moon, in all her shining glory, graced the clear night sky. And in stark silhouette against the backdrop of silver flew the owl, its wings outspread.
Arianrhod’s legacy would live on.
* * *
Tainted
Book 4
Copyright Christina Phillips 2013/2016
Tainted was previously published in 2013.
* * *
A dangerous love Rome will never allow…
Chapter 1
Britannia. AD52
Antonia drew aside the silken drape at the window of her father’s carpentum and scanned the flat Britannia countryside as they traveled along the straight Roman road. It was late spring but the day matched her mood—cloudy, with a hint of restless despair on the horizon.
“Antonia.” Her father clasped her hand and his smile warmed her frozen heart. How she longed to make his dreams for her come true. But she was no longer a young girl with a glorious future ahead. She was a matron, past her prime. She feared her beloved father might never recover from the disappointment of his only child’s failure to shine like a star in the Rome of his imagination.
She returned his smile. For him, she would endure this visit. For him, she would play the perfect Roman lady despite the fact her former husband had tossed her from his life with degrading disregard.
“My beautiful child.” Her father sighed, and Antonia knew of whom he was thinking. “You’re so like your mother. I see her face every time I look at you.”
Her heart squeezed in h
er breast in reflected sorrow. She’d never known her mother. But even after all these years her father still loved her. Still missed her. What must it be like to be loved so faithfully?
“I will find a man worthy of you,” he said, and she tried to ignore the way her stomach churned and chest constricted at the thought of being given to another man. “The noble blood of your mother runs through your veins. You deserve nothing less than to take your rightful place in the highest echelons of Rome. And befriending this tribune’s foreign wife is the perfect way to achieve our ends.”
If she had her way, she’d remain by her father’s side for the rest of their lives. And she intended to have her way. But there was no need to distress him with her unconventional plans. Not when they were within moments of arriving at their hosts’ villa, situated a few miles south of the town of Camulodunum.
“I confess I’m intrigued to meet this foreigner who appears to hold such sway over her husband.” The tribune, Tiberius Valerius Maximus, was a member of one of the most powerful families in the Senate. It was a mystery to Antonia how he’d been allowed to marry a native of a conquered land.
Her father leaned toward her in a conspiratorial manner, even though they were alone in his lavishly decorated carpentum. “There are rumors she is a barbarian princess from the wilds of Cambria. But don’t let this concern you. If she takes a liking to you, I know she’ll look favorably on finding a suitable match for you.”
Antonia gazed into the anxious eyes of her father and swallowed the words of denial that threatened to spill free. She would use every weapon at her disposal to turn him from his dream of seeing her wed once again. Only as a last resort would she confess the ultimate reason that would ensure her continued freedom from the shackles of forced matrimony.
Once again, she turned to the window and saw a large white villa set back from the road. It was grander than anything she’d yet seen in Britannia, but was modest compared to the villa her former husband, Amulius Cornelius Scipio, had owned.
The land in front of the villa was cultivated but devoid of ornate statuary. As the carpentum slowed she glanced over the surrounding land and, although some attempt at order had been imposed, in the main, the estate looked little different from the countryside that surrounded it.
How strange.
As she contemplated why a Roman should leave his estate in such rural disarray, a rider galloped past the window, pulled to a halt and leaped from the horse. Antonia tilted her head to get a better look and as she did so, the dismounted rider swung around and glared in her direction.
Their gazes clashed and Antonia’s heart slammed against her ribs as her fingers clenched around the sill of the open window. His eyes were dark, and although a strip of leather bound his long, dark blond hair, loose tendrils whipped across his unsmiling face giving him a wild, savage appearance.
The carpentum drew to a stop but the rider didn’t move out of the way despite how close he now was to her. Nor did he incline his head in a gesture of respect for her rank and Antonia continued to stare at him, mesmerized by the hostile air he projected her way.
Was he a slave of the tribune? Surely not. Even though he wore a neck ring, no slave would behave with such lack of deference toward a Roman. Was he then a trusted servant?
She heard her father say they had arrived, but still she couldn’t tear her fascinated gaze from the surly Briton. He held the bridle of his mount, his attention riveted on Antonia, apparently oblivious to the young stable lad who ran toward him.
Unease crawled along her spine, although she couldn’t think why. She was in no danger from this Briton. But why does he continue to stare at me?
With slow deliberation, the Briton’s lip curled in open disdain and shock punched through Antonia’s chest at his sheer, unabashed nerve. Was this the way he treated all visitors to his master’s estate? Or just her?
Heat flooded her cheeks as she realized how blatantly she’d been staring at him in return. Hastily she averted her eyes, smoothing her blue woolen palla as she rose to follow her father.
She was no longer a girl who might blush and giggle at the bold stare of an undisciplined man. She was a divorced woman of twenty-five and had no wish to draw the attention of any man, undisciplined or not.
Slaves unhooked the back door of the carpentum and she took a deep breath, still unaccountably shaken by the look of contempt the Briton had given her. She’d grown used to the derision heaped upon her head by Scipio, but what had she ever done to this stranger that he should look at her so?
And why am I still thinking of him? He would be gone now to his tasks. She would never see him again.
Her father stepped to the ground and as she held out her hand for a slave to assist her, awareness skittered over her skin. Before she could jerk back in self-preservation, the Briton took her hand, and his grasp wasn’t light as protocol dictated.
He gripped her fingers as though he possessed the right to touch her, to hold her, and for one terrifying moment Antonia had the mortifying certainty that she would stumble into his arms. Once again, their gazes clashed and once again, she was unaccountably captivated by the deep brown of his eyes.
And the unmistakable gleam of contempt that he made no effort to conceal.
By rights, she should pull free and reprimand him for his insolence. But instead, she remained paralyzed as his calloused fingers burned her flesh and sparks of fire danced in her blood.
His eyes darkened and the heat from his hand radiated along her arm, feeding the fire and searing the breath in her lungs. Blessed Juno, what’s happening to me? Writhing serpents blazed through her breast and coiled low in her womb. Liquid heat bloomed between her thighs, the fiery path a strange blend of pain and pleasure. She had never experienced anything like it in her life before. Yet instinctively she knew what this was, no matter how she tried to thrust the knowledge from her.
Lust.
The raw desire the Roman ladies of her acquaintance had whispered about during feminine gatherings. The graphic confidences shared and stamina of lovers compared, during the many scented bathing rituals she’d attended.
She had always believed the scandalous tales to be amusing exaggerations. Yet between one shocked heartbeat and the next, all her preconceived notions of passion sizzled into ash.
“Come, Antonia.” Her father’s voice penetrated her dazed contemplation and she wrenched her gaze from the Briton to focus on descending the two steps to the ground. She wouldn’t let him see how his intensity affected her. Would not give him the satisfaction of stumbling, even though her legs shook beneath her gown.
Her father smiled at her, apparently oblivious to the way the Briton continued to hold her hand. Why is he still holding my hand? Without turning to him, although every nerve she possessed screamed that she should turn to him, Antonia pulled free from his burning touch.
And then she couldn’t help but glance his way.
His dark eyes mocked her, the tilt of his lips confirming his low opinion of her. She couldn’t imagine why his opinion should matter and yet she discovered it did. Unnerved, she tilted her head at him in an unmistakable gesture of dismissal, but she wasn’t surprised when he didn’t back away or lower his own bold stare.
Her father was speaking, threading her arm through his, and Antonia dutifully walked by his side as they approached the villa. But his words flowed over her head, unheeded. Because, fanciful or not, she knew the Briton was staring at her. She could feel the fiery heat of his gaze on her back and she struggled not to look over her shoulder, just to confirm her suspicion.
Her flesh tingled where the Briton had clasped her hand and she battled the urge to flex her fingers. If she did, he would know the reason why. And it was of the utmost importance that she gave him no clue as to how deeply his careless touch affected her.
Her husband had stripped her of almost everything she possessed during their time together, but she retained a shadow of her former pride. And she had no intention of allowing this
uncouth native of a foreign land to breach the flimsy façade of serenity she’d fought so desperately to maintain during the last torturous year.
They entered the villa’s atrium where the exquisite mosaic floor, exotic stonework and beautiful statuary boldly declared the high status of its master. She forced a smile to her lips as the tribune, in his purple striped toga, came forward to greet them. How her father coveted that cursed purple stripe. How mistakenly he imagined there could be no higher honor for his daughter than to be welcomed within the elevated patrician rank.
How she longed to tell him of the putrid stink that seethed beneath that lofty veneer of civilized sophistication. And knew she never would.
The risk was too great.
As the tribune welcomed her father, she looked at the Roman’s face and shock slammed through her. Why hadn’t her father warned her? Only years of successfully hiding her true feelings prevented her from gasping aloud.
Ancient scars distorted the tribune’s face yet they were like nothing she had seen before. But in spite of the disfigurement, his haughty patrician beauty was enough to take any woman’s breath away.
How fortunate she was immune to such base stirrings.
And instantly the dark, condemning glare of the Briton invaded her mind.
“Welcome to our home,” a feminine voice said in perfect Latin and for the second time in as many moments, Antonia’s senses reeled in disbelief. The tribune’s wife sounded as though she’d lived in the upper echelons of Roman society her entire life. With her golden hair, slender figure and dressed in an exquisite stola, she wouldn’t have looked out of place in the emperor’s entourage.
“Thank you.” Antonia inclined her head in greeting as a slave took her palla. “It is most kind of you to invite me.”
“My wife has been looking forward to making your acquaintance,” the tribune said, and Antonia watched, fascinated, as he turned to his wife and bestowed a smile of such love that her heart ached. Never had she seen a man look at his wife in such a manner. Men of Rome would never allow such feelings to show, at least not in public. What enchantment had this foreigner weaved around her husband?
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