The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  She had no doubt that, if she married him, the praetor would keep his word and protect her and Cassia from any vindictiveness Scipio might harbor toward her. But they would be living a lie. And always in the back of her mind, whether she agreed to the praetor’s proposal or brought Cassia up in Britannia by herself, would be the fear that one day her deception would be revealed.

  Until the other night with Gawain, she’d never imagined telling anyone in Britannia about the bloodied events surrounding Cassia’s birth. But the events had happened. She couldn’t change the past. And she wouldn’t face the future burdened by a guilt that was not hers to bear.

  She was proud of her child. She wasn’t ashamed of what she had done to save her life. When Cassia arrived in Britannia, she would arrive as her blood daughter.

  “My lady.” The deep masculine voice sank into her senses like warm honey and it took a moment to realize that the voice was real and not a figment of her imagination. Fierce joy speared with raw denial thundered through her and she turned to see Gawain standing by her side.

  He is not a Druid. But he was here, when she had not thought to see him for hours. If that wasn’t a sign from Juno to trust him with her most precious of secrets, then what was?

  He sat beside her on the bench without waiting to be asked. Something no Roman noble would ever do, and yet where it mattered Gawain treated her with more respect than any of her fellow countrymen ever had.

  Yet it was tempting the Fates to meet so openly, even if there was a decorous distance between them. She smothered the urge to wrap her arms around him, to feel his body against her, to reassure herself that he was alive and well and not in danger of being crucified for his beliefs.

  “Anyone might see us here, Gawain.”

  With his legs stretched out before him and hands splayed across his thighs, he looked deceptively relaxed. But she could feel coiled tension radiating from him, and surely no one who glanced his way could be deceived that he was anything but a warrior on full alert.

  “Anyone?” His intense gaze scorched her. “Or someone in particular? The praetor, for instance?”

  Had he seen her with the praetor? Had Gawain followed her here to confront her?

  She wasn’t sure whether the knowledge thrilled or dismayed her. And threaded through every thought was the devastating suspicion of what he might truly be.

  Once again, she thrust the suspicion aside. “If word got back to my father, he—” The words locked in her throat as, for the first time, she questioned what exactly her father could do. She wasn’t a young girl whose reputation needed to remain pristine in order to make an advantageous marriage. And while she would never wish to shame him with her behavior, speaking in public with Gawain, kin to Carys, wasn’t something that would besmirch her name and reflect badly on her father.

  “But your father wouldn’t mind that you had been alone with the praetor, is that what you’re saying?”

  If her father knew what the praetor had asked, he would be delighted despite the fact she’d been alone with him. But she had no intention of telling Gawain of that conversation. She had no intention of telling her father, either.

  Before she could stop herself she leaned toward him, and the horror of the morning smashed through the defenses in her brain. Panic churned through her breast, constricting her breath as she recalled those terrifying moments when she’d feared it was Gawain who hung on the cross.

  “I witnessed the crucifixion. The praetor merely saw me there and escorted me back to the forum.”

  Gawain’s jaw tensed. “You saw the crucifixion?” From the corner of her eyes, she saw his hands fist on his thighs. Was it because he didn’t like the thought of her seeing such a thing? Or because the Druid had been a friend of his?

  Don’t go down that path. She had to stop thinking that way. Yet with Gawain by her side, looking at her as though he wanted to drag her into his arms and never let her go, she could think of little else.

  “They say he was a Druid.” The words were out, stark, and sounded like an accusation. Gawain’s expression didn’t alter, but since his face was a chiseled mask to begin with, that meant nothing.

  “Who are they? The Romans?” Contempt edged every word but it wasn’t condemnation she saw in his eyes. She couldn’t decipher what she saw in his eyes but it made her want to take him into her arms and shield him from all harm.

  What a foolish thing to think. As if she could ever protect Gawain from anything.

  She gripped her fingers together on her lap before she made an exhibition of herself. “If there are Druids in Camulodunum they will be hunted down and destroyed.” Juno, what was she doing? Was she trying to make him convince her he wasn’t a Druid or warn him that if he was, he needed to flee?

  I don’t want him to flee.

  “Because your emperor fears their ancient knowledge.” His words were no longer filled with contempt but with a strangely weary acceptance.

  Startled, she gazed at him. “No, of course it’s not for that reason.” She hesitated. No, surely that wasn’t the reason. It was because Druids incited fear in their people and stirred up rebellion against the mighty Eagle.

  Unease quivered through her heart. Stories her father had told her of the long-departed Druids in Gallia haunted her mind.

  “They steal the babies of their enemies,” she whispered, as an unformed dread knotted the pit of her stomach. “They drink their blood and offer sacrifice to their gods.”

  Gawain didn’t answer. He just continued to look at her, and there was no condemnation in his gaze. He looked at her as though her words didn’t surprise him. As if her beliefs were something he had already resigned himself to long before she had spoken.

  The dread bloomed with every beat of her heart. She had no personal experience of what Druids might or might not do. But her own husband, a Roman patrician, had been willing to spill the blood of his own child on the altar of his pride.

  She hitched in a shallow breath as her world tipped into uncharted waters. She had never questioned her father’s words. He told her only the truth as he saw it; as it had been related to him. As it was proclaimed by Rome.

  Her father was ruthless in his business dealings. He wouldn’t be such a successful merchant if he was not. But at home, with her, he was nothing but gentle and considerate. Yet now, with Gawain sitting silently by her side, she thought of her father’s attitude when it came to Druids with a new perspective.

  He loathed them. It was personal. A chill crawled along her spine and across her arms. What had happened in the past to make him so sure of their evil nature?

  Still Gawain regarded her. A treacherous certainty slid into her mind.

  She didn’t care if he was a Druid. She would stake her life that he had never mutilated a child in a sacred ritual or embarked on a savage trail of rape and murder of innocents. She realized she was clutching her locket and her thumb traced over its familiar gold surface.

  Time hung suspended between them. Gawain still waited for her response and she imagined her next words would tell him whether their liaison could continue—or finish this day.

  Slowly she unclasped the locket and pressed it against her breast. She could ask him outright if he was a Druid. He might even tell her the truth.

  But she didn’t want to hear it.

  She looked back at him once again, the face of a man who might be her worst enemy, but saw only the man she no longer wanted to live without. They might not have a future together. But she could give him this.

  “There’s something I did not tell you, about the night of my last daughter’s birth.”

  Emotion flickered in his eyes. Whatever he’d expected her to say, it had not been that. “Is there?” He sounded cautious but his entire focus was on her and although a sedate space remained between them she could feel his comforting heat embrace her.

  Any remaining doubts she might have harbored about telling him of Cassia vanished. “Yes. I defied Scipio’s orders to leave Cassia t
o the mercy of the gods. She’s alive, Gawain. And will be arriving in Britannia in a little over two weeks time.”

  * * *

  Gawain stared at Antonia and hoped his shock wasn’t apparent on his face. He’d been bracing himself for her to ask if he was a Druid. Had convinced himself that lying to her was the only thing he could do. Yet, as she so often did, she’d turned the conversation in a direction he’d not foreseen.

  His conviction had been right. This was the something significant that had happened the night of her daughter’s birth that he’d been unable to put his finger on. Of anything he might have imagined, the truth had not been it.

  She’d gone against the word of her husband, the perceived wishes of her gods and, presumably, the laws of Rome in order to save her newborn daughter. She might be a Roman noblewoman but she had the heart and the strength of will of a warrior.

  There was an odd constriction in his chest as he watched her cradle her locket in the palm of her hand, before she offered it to him. He looked at the opened locket, and saw two perfect portraits. One of a woman, the other of a beautiful baby.

  “My daughter, Cassia.” Antonia’s voice was barely above a whisper as she traced the tip of her finger over the face of the child. Then she did the same to the portrait of the woman. “I named her after my mother.”

  Remorse burned through him as he recalled his scathing thoughts the day they had met. Antonia had appeared scandalized that Carys had named Nia after her mother. He’d leaped to conclusions. They had been absolutely wrong.

  Antonia hadn’t been shocked at Carys breaking with Roman tradition. She had been shocked only because Carys was so open about it.

  He, who had once prided himself on his ability to judge others in the name of Lugus, was guilty of unfairly judging Antonia based solely on his own prejudices. He’d known many fearless women. Yet Antonia was the bravest.

  He kept his gaze fixed on her locket. “I should like to meet your daughter, Antonia.”

  The silence after his words razed his senses. If she had no wish for him to meet her child then why had she told him about her? Finally, he looked up at her, and caught the sparkle of tears in her beautiful eyes.

  She sniffed, blinked rapidly and gently closed her locket. “I would like that too.”

  * * *

  After leaving Antonia, Gawain made his way through the back streets. He’d met several of the underground Druids but after Rhys’ arrest they had all vanished without a trace. But, without Rhys, would they be willing to change their tactics?

  He turned into a dingy alley, his mind working on various scenarios whereby the legions fell and Antonia remained safe. And in that moment when his concentration shifted from his surroundings, the hair on the back of his neck rose in warning.

  He swung around, dagger in hand. Two cutthroats stalked him, identical leers on their faces. As one, they leaped toward him and he ducked, spun around and barreled into the closest one, sending them both crashing into a stone wall.

  As the first man staggered to his feet, the second one attacked Gawain from behind. He shoved backward and plunged his dagger into the other man’s neck. Blood bubbled over the hilt, over his hand, and he slammed his foot against the cutthroat’s chest. The man crumpled to the ground, just as the second man smashed his fist against the side of Gawain’s head.

  Pain exploded through his brain and caused his vision to double. He staggered, used the momentum and wheeled back toward his attacker.

  His hand was slippery with blood but he clung grimly onto his weapon. The man had a length of chain and he flicked it, like a whip, and Gawain’s dagger went flying.

  Gawain bared his teeth, grabbed the chain and yanked his assailant forward. He used his fists, his head, every part of his body was a honed weapon and the only sounds that filled his ears were harsh breaths, heavy thuds and the thunder of his blood.

  With a final punch, the cutthroat fell to the ground, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. Gawain staggered back a couple of steps, his breath searing his lungs, sweat and blood distorting his vision. When he was sure the other man had no intention of finishing the fight he swung around, looking for his dagger.

  And at the end of the alley saw the praetor, flanked by two foreign mercenaries.

  Chapter 22

  Gawain straightened, every battered sense on full alert as the praetor and his mercenaries strolled down the alley toward him. His dagger was out of reach, the chain wrapped around the second cutthroat’s legs, and he didn’t rate his chances high against another three men—who were all armed.

  “Celt.” The praetor swept his autocratic glance over him, as though Gawain was a leper. “Do I have your attention?”

  Gawain spat blood at the praetor’s feet. “I’m listening.” Not that he had much choice.

  For long moments, the praetor continued to stare at him. It was like looking into the soulless eyes of a serpent. Finally the Roman raised his hand and the mercenaries stepped back, allowing the two of them privacy.

  “If I dig deep enough,” his voice was low, ensuring they were not overheard, “I’ll discover the evidence I require against you. Your relationship with the tribune’s wife will not be enough to save your neck.”

  Gawain stifled the urge to retaliate. Physical violence would get him nowhere in his current circumstances and he couldn’t bait the praetor with words, because words could incriminate not only himself but Carys and all her blood kin.

  He battened down his frustration and forced the foul lie from his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The praetor’s smile was deadly. “Do not waste my time, Celt. If not for Lady Antonia you would already be feeding the crows on a cross.”

  Gawain’s heart jackknifed. His ribs hurt as he struggled to draw breath into his lungs. He couldn’t allow the Roman to see Antonia’s name meant anything to him. “You mean the merchant’s daughter? What does she have to do with this?”

  “I told you not to waste my time.” The praetor no longer bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “I’m not blind, Celt. I saw the way you looked at her the other night. I saw you sit beside her in the forum just now. Do you really think you have a chance of enticing a woman as refined as she?”

  Despite the pounding imperative to smash his fist between the Roman’s eyes, relief thundered through him. The praetor didn’t know of his and Antonia’s liaison. Her reputation was unsullied.

  “We’re merely acquaintances. She’s a friend of the tribune’s wife.”

  The praetor’s unblinking stare bored into him as though he sought answers to unasked questions. Gawain stared back. The Roman would learn nothing of Antonia from him.

  “Lady Antonia is blessed with the gentle heart of her sex.” The praetor puffed out his chest and Gawain battled the need to dive for his dagger and thrust it through the Roman’s throat. Condescending bastard. Antonia possessed the brave heart of a warrior. “It would distress her to see an acquaintance condemned as Rome’s bitterest enemy. I would do a great deal to avoid causing her such distress. Do you understand me, Celt?”

  The dank stone walls that flanked the alley contracted around him and it was hard to draw a breath. A buzzing cacophony filled his head, and the smug face of the Roman imprinted on his mind.

  The only reason he was still alive was because the praetor knew his death would upset Antonia. Evidence didn’t matter when it came to Druids. Mere suspicion was enough to convict. But the Roman knew Antonia cared for Gawain. And the Roman cared enough for Antonia to warn her barbarous lover of the consequences of continuing their ill-fated liaison.

  It didn’t matter what the praetor did to him. But it was imperative he didn’t suspect Antonia was his lover in reality. Rome set such stock by their noblewomen’s unblemished reputations.

  “Lady Antonia does not return my regard. If she did, your threats would mean nothing to me.”

  The Roman took another step toward him. “I do not threaten. I’m telling you how it wil
l be. Leave Britannia and never return.” He punched Gawain in the face, his heavy ring of office tearing flesh. Gawain staggered but refused to give the bastard the satisfaction of falling to the ground. “Should we meet again when Lady Antonia is my wife and far from this primitive province, my benevolence may not be so accommodating.”

  * * *

  Carys stood by his side in the room dedicated to preparing meals in the villa, arms folded, as one of the Druids who’d arrived with her mother tended to his injuries. He’d protested they didn’t need looking at, and Carys had threatened him with further violence if he didn’t comply.

  Only when the other Druid left the room did Carys let out an infuriated breath. “Cutthroats, you say?” Disbelief dripped from every word and he shot her a black glare. “And you were a random victim they picked upon?”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll never pick on another.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a moment.” She unfolded her arms and made a despairing gesture, clearly for Cerridwen’s benefit. “But I’m certain the praetor has many others he can call on.”

  He should have known Carys would see through his attempts to fog the truth. “I won’t leave Antonia at the mercy of that bastard. When I leave Camulodunon she will be by my side.” Antonia and her daughter. But Carys didn’t need to know everything.

  Carys returned his glare. “What happened to the brief affair, Gawain? You were supposed to forget about her within the turn of a moon. Not make insane plans to take her with you to the gods know where.”

  He rolled his shoulders and ignored the pain that spiked into every particle of his body.

  “You knew it would never be a brief affair, Carys.” She’d warned him against pursuing Antonia. Yet even if he’d possessed this foreknowledge, he would have continued on the same path. The threat of death from a jealous Roman was a small price to pay for the hours he’d spent with Antonia.