The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  Before the invasion, he’d often been called upon to decipher the confusing visions of young acolytes, or children who had not yet been welcomed into the sacred fold. But none of them to his knowledge had possessed Roman blood. Until this moment, the only other one he’d known was the ancient one from Gaul who had taught Latin to his clan.

  Spectacular red streaks splashed through the deep orange of the dying sun, casting mystical shadows across the land. The knowledge of the Druids was vast and ancient. But even Druids could not know all the secrets of the gods.

  “What else do you remember of your visions, Antonia?”

  For a moment, Antonia’s eyes glazed, as though she was searching through half-recalled memories. Then she blinked, and all confusion vanished.

  “She is young, like a goddess of spring. Yet she possesses such an aura of power and majesty I’ve always thought she was the queen of Olympus.” She hesitated for a moment. “I’ve always worshipped her as Juno. Even though sometimes—in my heart—I feared it wasn’t her.”

  A goddess of new beginnings. Yet one that wielded the power of majesty. Suspicion stirred. But surely not. The goddess in his mind was the most powerful one of all.

  “What else? Do you recall where the goddess spoke to you?”

  “It was dark. But I knew I was standing on the precipice and one false move would send me plunging to my death. And yet…” Her voice trailed off and she frowned, obviously trying to understand her fragmented recollections. “The path I should take was not certain. I had to choose. And I never knew whether my next step would lead to destruction or a future filled with hope.”

  “The crossroads.” His voice was hushed. For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes until, as one, they looked down at their feet.

  Where the Roman road crossed the Celtic path.

  Lugus was the finder of paths. But the Morrigan stood at the crossroads of life. Yet it was not the great goddess in her warrior aspect that had taken Antonia for her own.

  “Your goddess is Blodeuwedd.” The Morrigan in her maiden form. The goddess who overcame the manipulations of those who would enslave her—to find her true destiny.

  “She wants me to bring you home.” For the first time Antonia sounded uncertain. “To Caledonia?”

  Caledonia—the land of the Picts—wasn’t his home. In his heart, he knew it never would be.

  “Cymru is my home. But how can any of us return there? It’s infested by Romans.”

  A small smile touched her lips. “I’m half Roman, Gawain. And I am as proud of my mother’s heritage as you are of yours.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant.” She traced her fingertips along his jaw. “But Rome is here. And she has no intention of leaving.”

  His fingers tangled around one of her irresistible ringlets. “I’ll never succumb to the cursed Eagle.”

  “I would never wish you to.” She paused for a fleeting moment. “But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t utilize what Rome offers for the good of your own people.”

  “Do you wish me to become a politician?” He might have once held a position of responsibility among his own people. But until this moment, he’d never considered there was any similarity between a Druid upholder of the law and a Roman official. “I would likely choke on the rhetoric.”

  “You could speak for your people in the Roman administration, and I could speak for mine in your Celtic courts.”

  She was jesting. Surely. But he was not entirely certain. “Cymru is a land in revolt, Antonia. Unlike the Britons we’ve not surrendered our freedom.”

  “I’ve heard the Caledonians are a fierce, warlike people. They might resist Rome but they continue to fight each other. Their blood feuds are legendary,” Antonia said.

  The people of Cymru had legendary blood feuds also. But since the invasion, they had buried their rivalries in an effort to oust the enemy.

  Yet he knew what she meant. If he had to ride into battle, would he rather be among Picts or leading his own from Cymru?

  With a sense of disbelief, he stared down at Antonia. From the moment Aeron, the mad High Druid, had unleashed the fury of the gods and devastation had swept across the land two turns of the wheel ago, Gawain hadn’t imagined it possible he could ever return to Cymru except in the role of insurgent.

  But why shouldn’t I?

  Didn’t he owe it to his people to return to the land of his birth, the land where his ancestors had lived since the time of Creation? Didn’t he owe it to all those who had died defending their land to ensure their ways and beliefs were preserved for future generations?

  Would he ever have seen beyond his thirst for vengeance and crippling guilt at having failed Caratacus if Antonia hadn’t entered his life?

  Her quiet strength and courage had opened his eyes.

  Lugus had not abandoned him. He was the one who had led Gawain to Antonia.

  He pressed the palm of her hand against his chest. His heart ached with everything he wanted to say to her. But in the end, there was only one thing she needed to know.

  “I love you, Antonia. You brought the light back into my world.”

  In the last glowing rays of the sun as it sank beneath the far horizon, he saw the shimmer of tears in her beautiful eyes.

  “And I love you, Gawain.” Her whisper sank into his soul, a healing balm. “You and Cassia are my world.”

  Epilogue

  Two Weeks Later, Londinium

  Gawain stood at the dockside beside Antonia as the passengers on the ship bringing her daughter disembarked.

  Since that night at the crossroads, he’d spread the word that he would lead any displaced Celt back to Cymru. Several of the Druids he’d met through Rhys had come forward. By the end of this week, they would return to their homeland.

  The queen, along with several of her Druids, had decided to accompany them. With her connection to Carys, who had helped avert genocide, and Maximus, whose name carried great weight in the Roman world, they would receive due respect from the invaders when they returned as the exiled rulers.

  Gawain caught the stony glare of Antonia’s adoptive father as he stood on the other side of her. The older man didn’t approve of either Gawain or their plans to move to Cymru. But he had given his daughter his blessing. And intended to join them in their new life.

  He looked at Antonia. There was an aura of excitement surrounding her, of anticipation and relief but threaded through there was also a tremor of fear.

  Will Cassia still remember me? Her whisper from last night haunted him.

  He disregarded Roman protocol and threaded his fingers through hers. Her hand was chilled but she turned to look at him, and the love in her eyes stilled the breath in his throat.

  Tomorrow this woman would be his wife in the eyes of Rome. But she was already his wife in his heart, where it truly mattered.

  An elderly couple emerged from the crowds and Antonia stiffened. The old woman held a small child, a replica of Antonia in miniature. The baby caught sight of them and a smile illuminated her face.

  “She remembers you, my sweet Antonia.” He squeezed her fingers and she laughed, and finally the last shadow died from the depths of her eyes.

  Together, they went to greet their daughter.

  * * *

  If you like spellbinding historical romance filled with intrigue, passion, and drama, then you’ll love Christina Phillips’ unforgettable series, The Highland Warrior Chronicles

  Also in KU

  Her Savage Scot - The Highland Warrior Chronicles 1

  Her Vengeful Scot - The Highland Warrior Chronicles 2

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  Thank You

  Thank you for reading The Druid Chronicles. I hope you enjoyed them!

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  Discover the world of The Druid Chronicles

  If you enjoy hot Highlander romance, turn the page for details on my Highland Warrior Chronicles and read Chapter One of Her Savage Scot.

  Forged in blood, United by Passion

  The Highland Warrior Chronicles

  Her Savage Scot

  He’s the only man she wants, and the one she can never have…

  When tough Scot warrior Connor MacKenzie rides into the barbaric lands of the Picts on a mission for his king, he never expects to be captivated by a beautiful Pictish widow. Drawn under her spell, yet unaware of her true identity, he risks everything for one passionate night in her arms.

  Aila, princess of Pictland, swore, after her husband died, that she would never marry again. But after meeting Connor, her frozen heart thaws and once again she imagines a future filled with love and passion.

  When Connor delivers the message from his king, Aila becomes a pawn in a deadly game of politics. Her heart belongs to Connor, but she must marry the prince of Dal Riada – Connor’s half-brother. But the fates have other plans for the star-crossed lovers as they fight their enemies and themselves to find true love.

  Her Savage Scot

  Chapter One

  Connor MacKenzie stifled the irrational urge to flinch as Maeve Balfour, possibly the most beautiful woman in the great hall that evening, drifted her fingers across his. He attempted without success to ignore the blatant invite in her seductive hazel eyes and instead downed his tankard of ale. God, he was tired. All he wanted was for this victory feast to end so he could fall into oblivion in his bed.

  Alone.

  Lies. What he wanted was to sink into Maeve’s welcoming heat, feel her arms around him and forget for a few precious moments the bloodied images imprinted in his brain.

  But their liaison could no longer continue.

  “You look tense, my love.” Maeve offered him a smile that during the last year had never failed to rouse his interest. Tonight was no different, except tonight everything was different. “Come to my chambers later,” she whispered as she raised her goblet to her lips. “There’s no chance of MacDougall catching us now.”

  Corrosive guilt cramped his gut and strangled the heated lust that threatened to override good sense. “The man’s not cold in his grave yet, Maeve.” The hypocrisy of his words choked him. He’d held Iain MacDougall in contempt during his life. Why did death suddenly elevate his status?

  He’d been a bastard to every soul he owned. His wife included.

  A blush heated Maeve’s aristocratic cheeks. “Aye. And I won’t pretend despair when all that fills my heart is relief. You know how it was, Connor. He lost my respect long ago.”

  “I know.” Briefly he squeezed her fingers and once again battled against the lust that speared his loins. He recalled how hard Maeve, as a young bride six years ago, had tried to win the love of her arrogant lord. How MacDougall had abused her. Had continued to fuck any female unlucky enough to catch his salacious eye. “But I saw him fall.” Saw the Vikings behead him. No matter how much he’d despised the man, no warrior deserved such a barbaric fate. “He was still my countryman. And I failed to save him.”

  Maeve studied the cut of lamb she’d barely touched before picking it up between thumb and forefinger and slinging it to the prowling dogs. “Does this change things between us?”

  Appetite lost, he shoved his plate aside. The raucous laughter and jeers around the long table hammered into his brain. The stink of ale and sweat and canine drenched his senses.

  The memory of Maeve in his arms haunted his twisted conscience.

  “How can it not?” He glanced across the table at his half brother Fergus who was stuffing his mouth with one hand and fondling a dull-eyed slave girl with the other. “You know it does.”

  He turned to the young woman by his side, but from the corner of his eye saw Fergus stumble to his feet and drag the reluctant girl from the hall. Weary disgust roiled Connor’s stomach. There were women aplenty who’d share Fergus’ bed, yet he found more pleasure in taking those who had no rights of denial.

  “Aye.” Maeve’s voice was soft, as if it were no great revelation to her. “But I hoped—I prayed—it wouldn’t.” She offered him a smile that magnified his guilt, illuminated his self-loathing. “You honored me with fidelity this last year. That’s more than my husband ever did. I can wait until you’re ready.”

  Aye, he’d been faithful to his mistress. But Maeve had given him what he needed. A warm body to slake his need. Pleasing conversation to soothe his mind.

  And the safety of knowing she would never—could never—demand any more from him.

  He had no more he could give.

  * * *

  The chill night air of the keep was a welcome respite after the stuffy confines of the crowded hall. He dragged in a great breath, filling his lungs, clearing his head. Dunadd, the royal stronghold of Dal Riada, and the center of existence for its surrounding chattels and farmsteads dominated the hilltop. For three hundred years, the hill-fort’s formidable ramparts had repelled enemy attacks from both the Northumbrians in the south and the Picts to the northeast. But now they faced a new invader. One who dared to stake their claim on the Scots’ islands heritage, who dared to look across the firth of Lorn to the heart of their kingdom.

  Light spilled from the narrow window slits behind him, illuminating Fergus as he dropped a couple of coins into the girl’s hand and staggered back. She curled her fingers against her breast and huddled against the stone wall, making her way back toward the massive timber doors.

  Then she stilled, like a rabbit sensing a predatory fox, as she became aware of Connor’s presence. Biting back a curse, he stepped away from the wall to allow her unimpeded access, but she remained frozen, obviously expecting him to take his turn with her. And even though it had been weeks since he’d lain with Maeve, the thought of slaking his pent-up lust with an intimidated slave was enough to cool any ardor that still heated his blood.

  “Get back to the kitchens.” His voice was unintentionally gruff and she flinched, sinking into the shadows of the ancient stone. And who was he to tell her what to do? She’d obey her master. And if serving the warriors’ every need was her order, then she had no choice in the matter.

  He waited until she scurried away before striding toward Fergus as he unsteadily took a piss. He turned at Connor’s approach and offered a welcoming leer.

  “Alone, little brother? You need to learn how to enjoy life more.” He adjusted his plaid then rolled his shoulders, clearly well satisfied.

  “We have different definitions of enjoyment.” Connor narrowed his eyes as he stared down from their mighty hill toward the firth and beyond, where the Isle of Iona braved the western ocean. Where the Scots had so recently beaten back the Norse invaders who cast their shadow across the outer islands like a hell-borne plague.

  Fergus slapped his shoulder and attempted to pull him into a bear hug. The drunker Fergus became, the more inclined to familial intimacy he became. It didn’t mean much when Connor still bore the scars from his brother’s childhood beatings.

  But, after all, Fergus was his only brother. Buried deep inside, somewhere, lay the tattered remains of his boyhood hero-worship. And it had been thirteen years since Fergus had dared lay hands on him in anger.

  “If you can’t find pleasure in fucking every beautiful woman you come across, then you might as well tether your balls in another marriage.”

  Connor grunted, disinclined to discuss such matters. Fergus didn’t take the hint.

  “Not that a wife would keep my cock leashed.” Fergus grinned at his wit and aimed a less-than-steady punch at Connor’s chest. “But such unnatural chastity comes easily to you.” He staggered and steadied himself against Connor’s shoulder. “Tell me. How many whores have you had these last four years?”

  “None.” Connor shoved his brot
her upright. “I don’t fuck whores.” He and Maeve had been scrupulous in their efforts to keep their affair private. Neither had wanted to arouse MacDougall’s suspicion. Not because he feared the other man’s fury, but because he had no intention of allowing such knowledge to besmirch Maeve’s reputation.

  MacDougall would have dragged her naked by her hair through the filth of the middens had he discovered her infidelity. And in the challenge to avenge her honor, Connor would have run his sword through the bastard’s heart.

  And marriage to the widow would have been the inevitable conclusion.

  “Then it’s a wonder,” Fergus said, “how you manage to lift your sword, considering the exercise you must inflict upon your wrist in pursuit of self-gratification.”

  Sometimes it was easier to agree than argue when Fergus floundered in ale-induced stupidity. Especially when Connor had no intention of enlightening him as to the error of his convictions. “Aye.”

  * * *

  The sharp tang of salt from the sea flavored the westerly breeze as Connor strode toward the stables the following morning. Clouds scudded across the pale-blue sky and rain threatened on the horizon, but it would take more than a spring thunderstorm to prevent him from leaving.

  His hill fort in the east of Dal Riada, small as it was, had been neglected too long.

  “Connor.” Ewan MacKinnon, fellow warrior, lifelong friend and the only one aware of his attachment to Maeve, hailed him from the fort. Connor turned, raised a hand in greeting and waited until Ewan reached his side. “The king wants to see us.”