The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  “It’s true,” the foreign princess said as she turned back to Antonia with a smile that could surely rival Venus herself. “There are very few young women of Rome here and I’m most eager to learn all I can of your city.”

  “It would be my honor to enlighten you,” Antonia said, and she tried not to stare at the princess’ mismatched eyes. She’d never encountered such a phenomenon before, although it was whispered one of the sacred Vestal Virgins also possessed such an anomaly.

  “Come. We will leave the men to their business and take refreshments in the courtyard.”

  Antonia fully expected the Cambrian beauty—no one in their right mind could call her a barbarian—to take her arm as if they were the dearest of friends. In Rome all the ladies in her social sphere kissed and hugged no matter how slight their acquaintance, but regardless of how she looked, this tribune’s wife obviously knew nothing of such customs.

  Was that the kind of thing she wanted Antonia to tell her about?

  “You must call me Carys,” the other woman said as they entered the large courtyard. An impressive colonnade surrounded the four sides giving protection from the weather and a central fountain, of Venus rising from the waves, was an oddly discordant note of formality in the otherwise wild, undisciplined garden. “And I shall call you Antonia.”

  “Of course.” For all that Carys was a native of a conquered land and younger than Antonia, she was still the wife of an influential patrician. And Antonia, despite the blood of her mother, was nothing but a divorced woman, once again under the protection of her father.

  There was no question that Antonia would presume to dispute anything Carys might request.

  Unless it involved matrimony.

  They sat on a stone bench and slaves brought out an array of edible delicacies and arranged them on a low stone table.

  “I hope you enjoy living in Britain,” Carys said, and it was a shock to hear her call the province by its barbaric name. “I know we’re going to be such good friends.”

  Antonia smiled, as etiquette dictated, and recalled the women she had once thought were her friends back in Rome. How quickly they had faded from her side once it became known that her husband no longer had any use for her.

  “I’m sure we will be.” But friends confided their deepest secrets and Antonia would never share hers with another living soul. How often had she thanked the wise Juno for preventing her from telling her intimate circle in Rome of her treacherous plans? If she’d followed her heart in that matter, they would have betrayed her to Scipio. And she had no doubt, he would have taken her life.

  Carys’ smile faltered and for one surreal moment, Antonia had the certainty that the other woman had guessed her thoughts. Heat shot through her and she broke eye contact, smoothing the flawless silk of her stola. She had to forget about the women she had once called her friends. Their fickle natures didn’t matter and would never touch her again. There was only thing she had to concentrate on, and soon, with Juno’s blessing, her stealthily laid plans would come to fruition.

  Awareness prickled along her exposed nape, and in the same instance Carys leaped to her feet in a manner most unlike any Roman noblewoman. Antonia refused to grip her fingers together in her lap, refused to glance over her shoulder, and instead focused with deathly intensity on the tranquility of the tinkling fountain.

  The Briton had not just entered the courtyard. Why had her thoughts instantly turned to that possibility? And besides, if he had, Carys would most certainly not have jumped up with such lack of decorum.

  And despite herself, Antonia glanced over her shoulder.

  It was the Briton. Disbelief pulsed through her as she watched Carys rise onto her toes to kiss his face. Paralyzed, she saw his grim expression relax into a semblance of a smile as he wound his arm around her shoulders and gave her a brief hug.

  Was he Carys’ lover? Did the tribune know? Many of her former friends had enjoyed illicit liaisons with slaves or those in their husband’s employ. But even the most brazen wouldn’t display her unfaithfulness before a complete stranger.

  “Come, Gawain,” Carys said, still speaking Latin, as she tugged the Briton by his hand. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Antonia tried to ignore the way her stomach churned and she gripped her fingers together in spite of her best intentions. Why would Carys wish to introduce her to this Briton? Why do I have the sudden urge to be violently ill?

  “Antonia, this is Gawain, my beloved kin from my homeland.” Her kin? Antonia stared at Gawain’s long-sleeved shirt and the braccae that encased each of his powerfully muscled legs. Outside she had merely noted his clothes were not those of a Roman but now she realized that they were, in fact, of good quality linen. How had she imagined for even a moment that he was a slave? “Gawain,” Carys continued, turning to the now unsmiling Briton—Cambrian. “This is Antonia, daughter of our esteemed merchant, Drusus Antonius Faustus.”

  For a long, agonizing moment, Antonia looked up into his dark eyes as insane images of fleeing this courtyard flashed through her mind. He towered over her, a threatening presence of pure masculinity, and everything about him radiated a raw, primitive danger. Only now did she acknowledge that the torque around his throat was nothing like a slave ring. It gleamed like silver and its intricate engravings were similar to those that adorned his savagely compelling earring.

  “My pleasure.” His husky voice and erotically seductive accent caressed her skin like a lover’s touch and sank into her blood like a dreaded fever. His free hand reached for her and panic thudded through her blood, squeezing the air from her lungs and making it hard to draw breath.

  Years ago, as a young bride, she had dreamed of a man such as him. One who could ignite her senses with barely a glance and cause her flesh to smolder with a single sultry word. But she had been a girl then. She was a woman now. And she couldn’t afford to indulge in foolish fantasies that would lead nowhere. He’d made his contempt for her clear. His attitude now was nothing but an insincere display so as not to offend his kin.

  She could ignore him. And disgrace her father’s name.

  But she had disgraced her father enough. It wouldn’t kill her to allow this Cambrian to take her hand. She would endure his touch one last time. The gods knew she had endured far worse.

  Yet it took every particle of nerve she possessed to unclench her fingers and raise her hand.

  She caught the mocking gleam in his eyes as he took her hand in his calloused grip and lowered his head toward her. Her mouth dried as his lips brushed across her knuckles, his touch deliberately possessive as though he knew full well how she battled not to tremble at the contact.

  Then, still holding her hand, he looked up at her and the lust and fury blazing in his eyes scorched her like a furnace to Hades.

  Chapter 2

  Gawain slowly caressed his thumb across the soft skin of the Roman’s fingers and cursed how his blood thundered through his veins at the provocative touch. She looked at him with cool disdain, her blue eyes reminding him of a cloudless sky in the moments before a frost descended.

  But she couldn’t fool him. He’d seen her desire back on the road, before she’d managed to hide it. And now she looked at him as though he was little better than a slave. A native of a country her fucking emperor had conquered.

  She attempted to free her hand and he tightened his grip. Her people might have subdued the vast majority of his, but no Roman dictated his movements. For an endless moment, he met her silent challenge and only when her eyes began to darken with reluctant acknowledgment of their mutual lust, did he finally allow her to pull free.

  “Will you join us, Gawain?”

  He knew Carys’ question was pure formality. She didn’t expect him to stay while she entertained a spoiled Roman female. He had no wish to stay. The news he had for Carys could be given to her later, but the way the Roman stiffened in response to Carys’ question irked.

  It was clear she wanted him to leave. Conversely,
he decided that he would remain.

  “Thank you.” He offered Carys a sardonic smile and then ignored the pointed glare she sent his way. It was obvious she was going to berate him for his bad manners once her irritating guest had departed. He folded his arms and leaned against one of the pretentious Roman columns that surrounded the courtyard garden. “Do you intend to stay long on this primitive isle, Lady Antonia?”

  She inclined her head in a regal manner and one pale golden ringlet trailed across the elegant curve of her shoulder.

  “I intend to stay for as long as my father decrees.”

  Gawain tore his fascinated gaze from her cursed ringlet. Of course she would stay until her father told her otherwise. She was a Roman woman, and Roman women did only what their men folk commanded of them. But instead of responding to her comment, his gaze became fixed on the riot of curls and waves of her hair, held in place by glittering, gem-encrusted pins.

  He had the savage urge to rip those pins from her and watch that glorious hair tumble in abandoned disarray over her naked shoulders. The image was so vivid in his mind that his cock, already aroused since his first encounter with Antonia on the road, hardened with anticipation.

  She’s a Roman. But it made no difference. He wanted to fuck her and by the gods he’d find a way to have her, and soon.

  “Antonia only arrived in Britain six days ago.” There was a hint of censure in Carys’ voice. Did she know what he wanted to do with her fragile little guest? He smothered a grim smile. Carys might pretend to be the perfect Roman matron in public, but at heart she was a princess of Cymru. He had no doubt that she knew exactly what his intentions toward the Roman entailed.

  “Is this the first time you’ve ventured beyond the cradle of Rome?” He resisted the urge to shift position. It wouldn’t do any good. The only position that would ease his discomfort was having Antonia on her hands and knees in front of him while he took her from behind. While I plunge my hands into her golden curls and tangle her hair around my fingers.

  Gingerly he shifted his back against the marble column but as he’d already known, it did nothing to diminish his cursed erection. When Antonia deigned to favor him with a glance, it only increased the raw need pounding through his blood. She need only drop her gaze to see how much he wanted her. Would she feign shock at the sight?

  “I was born in Gallia.” There was a haughty note in her voice and her eyes didn’t waver from his. “I didn’t venture into the cradle of Rome until I was fourteen years old.”

  For a moment he was distracted from his fantasy of hearing Antonia scream in ecstasy as he hammered between her naked thighs. Not only had she repeated his less than complimentary words back at him. But he also detected a scathing undertone that was all her own.

  “So you’re not a Roman noblewoman born and bred?”

  “Gawain.” There was an edge to Carys’ voice. “If you cannot be civil to Antonia then perhaps you should take your leave.”

  “Do you find my manner uncivil, Lady Antonia?” He offered her a mocking smile, daring her to respond. She might not have been born in Rome, but she was a Roman from the top of her elaborately curled hair to her daintily clad feet and in public, Roman women rarely spoke their mind.

  “I find your manner unsurprising.” Antonia smiled back at him, but her eyes were glacial. “And civility is a matter of perspective.”

  He managed to contain his own surprise at her response, but only just. He’d bantered with several highborn Roman women since leaving his beloved homeland two turns of the wheel ago. But none of them had so bluntly inferred that they considered him a rude bastard.

  But then, none of them had stirred his lust to the degree Antonia managed with barely a glance. He wasn’t sure why that fact irritated him so much or why he felt the need to bait her with barbed remarks. Was it because he knew she hated the heat that flared between them? The knowledge that she battled, even now, to prevent him from seeing the need in her eyes?

  Whatever the reason, her reply only stoked his lust further. And, gods curse it, that wasn’t all. Her answer intrigued him on a level that no Roman had the right to touch.

  “Your perspective,” he said, “is one I shall enjoy exploring.”

  “Alas,” Antonia’s voice dripped ice. “My perspective is not available for such exploration.”

  “Indeed, Gawain.” Only those who knew Carys well would recognize the fury beneath her level tone. “I can’t imagine what you’re suggesting.” Her tone implied she knew exactly what he was suggesting and was deeply affronted by his nerve.

  He tossed her a dark glance. She might think this fragile-looking Roman needed protection from his attention but she was wrong. He could taste Antonia’s repressed arousal in the fragranced air, could feel the fiery bonds of need that weaved between them. Could see the angry battle between lust and propriety behind the calm façade she presented to the world.

  The other Roman women he’d fucked might not have stirred his cock so violently, but he’d been aware of their interest from the moment they’d met. In public, they behaved like model wives. In private, he’d shared their luscious charms and taken grim pleasure in the knowledge that those aloof foreign women had come apart beneath his invasion. It was a hollow satisfaction, but all he could gain, in knowing he invaded the women of Rome in response to how Rome invaded his own land and people.

  Antonia was no different. Once he engineered a moment for them to be alone, she’d discard her false pretenses and welcome his barbaric touch.

  They all welcomed his barbaric touch. They swooned with orgasmic delight at the thought of fucking a primitive barbarian. None of them imagined it wasn’t simply their bodies he coveted. None of them guessed it was the information he gleaned from their arrogant husbands that truly interested him.

  Yet Antonia wasn’t with her husband. The thought hammered through his mind, mocking his previous thoughts. And illuminating the reason why her presence so enraged his senses.

  He wanted her. But he could learn nothing of use from fraternizing with her. Like all her contemporaries that he’d met, she might be frustrated, bored and eager for an illicit liaison despite how she attempted to hide her true feelings. But with all the others, while he’d never felt the need to decline their advances, he’d never experienced the urge to initiate such an encounter.

  Yet he could think of little else when it came to Antonia.

  “I suggest nothing, Carys.” His voice was harsher than he intended. Gods. He might not care that Carys knew he desired the little Roman but he certainly didn’t want her guessing just how badly he wanted her. “If my words have offended Lady Antonia then I trust she will accept my apologies.”

  “Apologies are unnecessary.” Antonia smoothed the white material of her long gown, her lashes lowered so he could no longer see her ice-blue eyes. “I’m not easily offended. Life in Rome is not for the faint of heart.”

  It was the second time she’d referred to Rome in less than glowing terms. Every other Roman woman he’d met had bemoaned the fact they’d been torn from the civilized center of the world and thrust into a primitive province on the edge of the empire. Shortly afterward, he impaled them, and they forgot their discontent as they gasped with delight at the pleasures available from willing natives.

  Carys pounced on Antonia’s comment and began to ask her questions of Rome. Gawain gritted his teeth and held his tongue. Carys cared nothing for Rome or its people. All she cared about was that her beloved husband and child and her goddess, Cerridwen, survived and prospered, and for that Carys would do whatever she had to. Even if she had to embrace the enemy in the corrupt heart of its empire.

  He realized he was staring at Antonia’s profile. She sat on the stone bench like a goddess in the flesh, the graceful folds of her gown enhancing the curves of her body in a sensual caress. Her cursedly provocative ringlet brushed her shoulder as she inclined her head toward Carys, and a pale blush stained her aristocratic cheeks as though she were fully aware of his inte
nse scrutiny.

  She was beautiful, pampered and nothing like the kind of women he preferred. Did she even possess the knowledge of how to wield a bow, never mind the strength required to use one? He doubted she had the first idea how to use a dagger except as an implement to spear her food. Yet he couldn’t drag his mesmerized gaze from her.

  It made no sense. Except for the ethereal quality of her beauty, she was the same as every other Roman woman he’d had since he’d left the sacred Druid Isle of Mon.

  None of them were warriors. None of them were capable of defending themselves against attack. Not once had he been unable to tear his gaze from any of them. He could scarcely even remember the last time white hot lust had seared his veins and the primal need to rut like a savage had thundered through his senses.

  But this elegant creature, in her foreign gown and jewelry, bewitched him. Was it because she tried so hard to deny her desire? That had never affected him before. If a Roman woman was faithful to her husband, he’d never felt the urge to change her mind.

  He had no idea of Antonia’s marital status. He cared nothing for her marital status. But he would discover the game she played and she would learn that he followed no rules but his own.

  Chapter 3

  Antonia forced herself to concentrate on Carys and her animated conversation. But every nerve quivered with acute awareness that the glowering Cambrian continued to direct his entire attention her way.

  She wouldn’t look at him. Let him imagine he could intimidate her with his pointed remarks and disdainful glances. If he wanted to direct his hatred of her people onto her, there was little she could do about it.