Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3)

by Christina Phillips

  Goddess, what was she thinking? She tightened her grip on her dagger and stood her ground by sheer force of her Druidic will. He was a Roman. She would rather die here, impaled on his sword, than give in to such despicable desire.

  For one sizzling moment, she imagined him impaling her, but it was not with his sword and it was not through her heart.

  The ugly truth shamed the depths of her being, but it was the truth nevertheless. She wanted him.

  She would cut out her tongue before she ever admitted such to another living soul.

  “I believe I would need to be dead before you ever had the chance to find out.” Her voice was husky, seductive, and the tightening of his jaw told her that, despite her resolve, she had failed to hide her illicit interest.

  He didn’t lean toward her. He was too proud, too sure of his own superiority and yet he filled her vision. As if nothing else on this mountain existed, and everything beyond was nothing but a bloodied nightmare.

  “There would be little fun to be had if you were dead.”

  Her mouth dried, pulses hammered. It was inconceivable, unbelievable, but this Roman barbarian was flirting with her. He behaved as though they had met by chance in a marketplace, and not on the edges of a devastating battlefield.

  A vague thought fluttered through the outer reaches of her mind. Why did he not attempt to disarm her? One thrust of his sword would end this confrontation. Yet still she couldn’t back away from the danger. Still she couldn’t drag her mesmerized gaze from his compelling face.

  She fought the primitive need spiraling through her treacherous body.

  “I didn’t think Romans were so fastidious.” Why did she continue this conversation? Was she truly so desperate to hear his voice once again?

  “This Roman,” his voice dropped lower, and liquid heat bathed her core, “prefers his women to possess a heartbeat. At the very least.” Unbearable. She struggled against the need to press her thighs together and rub her aching breasts against this cursed invader’s naked chest.

  “And I prefer my men to possess a heart, at the very least.” The words were out before she could stop them. As though she conversed with an equal, one worthy of her time. One worthy of her desire.

  She scarcely managed to prevent squirming with shame. Except it wasn’t shame that quivered through her breast or thundered against her skull. It was pure, unbridled lust.

  “I possess a heart,” he said. “As you will very soon discover when you lay naked in my arms.” There was no mistake this time. He was mocking her. Yet she remained rooted to the ground, held by an invisible enchantment. And then he angled his body toward her. A slight movement, but a movement nevertheless. “All you have to do is surrender into my custody.”

  She could throw her dagger at his throat. Except she knew she would never have time to aim the deadly thrust before he killed her with his sword. And what would become of the queen and princess then?

  “Beware, Roman.” Far from sounding like a threat, she sounded as if she wished her words to caress. “Give me the slightest opportunity and I will carve your corrupt heart from your chest.”

  “That sounds…” He paused, considering the matter. “Stimulating.”

  Her own heart thudded against her ribs, as if it wished to make its own unorthodox escape from her chest. Her breath tangled in her throat and again the image of him impaling her with his foreign cock flooded her scalding senses.

  She almost lost her tenuous grip on her dagger.

  “I would never willingly share your bed.” But who was she trying to convince? This Roman? Or herself?

  This time his lips curved into a smile of pure decadence. “I will greatly enjoy changing your mind, Celt.”

  She tried to drag her gaze from his lips, but failed. How would they taste? How would they feel? When it came to pleasuring the flesh, how talented with his mouth was this arrogant invader?

  “Then you are destined for grave disappointment.” But the response was hollow because it was she who was destined for disappointment. The knowledge disgusted her as much as it confused her. How could she want a Roman? She had despised their race her entire life. She always would. This heat in her blood was nothing more than the aftereffects from the battle. It had nothing to do with the man who looked at her as if he’d like to strip her naked and intimately examine every flushed particle of flesh she possessed.

  “I don’t intend to be disappointed in this matter.” He leaned a little farther over his horse, and yet still his sword did not waver. One false move and he could cut her down in an instant. “You will share my bed, and you will enjoy every mindless, ecstatic orgasm I claim from your writhing body.”

  Her chest contracted, as if he had reached inside her and squeezed the air from her lungs. His words conjured up a vision so intense, so vivid, she could feel his hands on her body. Could feel the tension screaming through her blood. Could see, on the edges of her sanity, dark fulfillment that would curse her soul forevermore.

  She raised her arm, her dagger a poor defense against his Roman weapon. She didn’t know what she intended. But in that instant as he looked at her, she saw the color of his eyes. A strange shade of blue, violet, unusual… entrancing. Before she could fully comprehend why she was moving toward him, a blinding pain wrenched through her shoulder, catapulting her backward to the ground. In that fleeting moment, as incomprehension weaved through her stunned senses, she saw the arrow embedded in her shoulder before her head cracked against something hard and the world turned black.

  Chapter Two

  Lucius Marius Tacitus saw the arrow impale the water sprite and saw her enchanting green eyes widen in shock, but before he managed to leap from his horse, she tumbled to the ground.

  White fury lanced through his chest as he sheathed his sword and knelt by her side. She still breathed. But she was not conscious.

  “Sir, are you harmed?” The mounted auxiliary rode to his side, his bow in his hand. Tacitus gave him a scathing glare.

  “Harmed?” Derision dripped from the word. “By the hand of a girl?”

  The foreign auxiliary glanced at the fallen Celt. “She’d drawn her dagger. I thought her about to attack you.”

  Tacitus’ fist clenched. By the gods, he’d string that Gallian auxiliary up by his balls if this Celt died from her injuries.

  “Whether she attacked or not, the danger was negligible.” Gingerly he lifted her honey-colored braid. It was surprisingly heavy.

  No blood seeped into the grass beneath her.

  With odd reluctance, he released her hair and frowned into her face. He knew he had never seen her before. He would never forget a face such as hers. And yet the eerie certainty that they had met in the past gnawed at the edges of his consciousness.

  The auxiliary had dismounted and now stood by his side. “She’s no peasant,” he said, stating the obvious as though it were a great revelation. “She’ll fetch a good price on the block.”

  Distaste for the Gallian mutated into cold loathing. Tacitus stood, towered over the other man, using not only his superior height and strength but also his rank and, gods curse it, his formidable heritage to intimidate.

  Before the Gallian had time to do anything but stumble back in sudden alarm, another officer and several auxiliaries of the cavalry appeared. Tacitus transferred his glare to the tribune, Blandus, his own blood cousin, who had arrived with the Legion commanded by Ostorius Scapula the previous day.

  Raw frustration ripped through his chest. When he’d encountered the Celt kneeling by the stream, his interest had been caught. When she whirled around, dagger in hand, he’d been enchanted by the vision of the fragile water sprite in warrior maiden mode. And when she answered him back as if she was his equal and not in imminent danger from her deadliest enemy, he’d been captivated.

  There had been no doubt in his mind that this day would end with her in his bed.

  “Tacitus.” Blandus grinned, clearly well satisfied with the day’s events. Until moments ago, T
acitus had been feeling good about the day too. Until that fucking stupid Gallian had interfered. “Wondered where you’d disappeared to.” His gaze shifted to the ground, to where the Celt lay. “Not dead is she?”

  “No.” Tacitus forced the word between his teeth. A few moments longer was all he had needed to secure her surrender. Then he could have protected her as a casualty of war. Now if she survived, she risked the fate of all captured insurgents.

  And looking as she did, her fate would not be crucifixion.

  Blandus dismounted and strolled toward the fallen woman. “Gods, she’s a beauty.” He crouched down to get a closer look. Tacitus only just prevented himself from shoving his cousin onto his arse. “Clean her up, get rid of the blood and filth.” Blandus reached out and brushed tendrils of her hair from her face. If any other man had dared to touch her so, Tacitus would smash his fist into their face. But Blandus was his cousin, and this woman—this girl—did not even belong to him to warrant such protection.

  “And the arrow.” Tacitus’ voice was scathing. “Or didn’t you notice that?”

  Blandus grunted. “Whoever is responsible for that should be gutted.” His hand curved over her uninjured shoulder and along her arm, before cradling her breasts.

  Tacitus crouched on the other side of the Celt and glowered at Blandus. “She’s not a fucking horse. Take your hands off her.”

  Blandus shot him a salacious grin before sliding his fingers across her belly toward the apex of her thighs. Tacitus knocked his hand away. It turned his stomach to see Blandus treat her as if she wasn’t even human.

  “I see the way your mind is working.” Blandus’ voice was low, although dark amusement glinted in his eyes. “She’s damaged goods. We could get her for a bargain if we offered to attend her injuries ourselves. And I’ve no doubt we could make a good profit on resale by the time we tired of her.”

  Tacitus looked back at her face and a jolt shot through him. Her eyes were open, staring up at him, but they were glazed as though she could not truly see him. Without thinking, he cupped her jaw and rubbed his thumb across her cheek. As much as he wished to take issue with his cousin’s offensive remarks if he didn’t get this Celt back to civilization soon, the chances were high she wouldn’t survive the night.

  With a deep breath, he gripped the arrow in her shoulder and snapped the shaft. She gasped and then her eyes rolled back and she descended once more into oblivion.

  “Ten lashes?” Blandus said as Tacitus gently lifted the Celt into his arms. He hoped she remained unconscious until the physician managed to remove the rest of the arrow from her shoulder.

  “What?” He glared at Blandus. The girl weighed next to nothing. So light, she could easily be a water sprite. What the fuck had she been doing, wandering alone in the aftermath of battle? She had wielded a dagger, but there had been no danger to his life. She was too small, too fragile to cause harm to anyone, let alone a warrior.

  Blandus nodded at the girl. “The one who damaged her. Ten lashes?”

  Tacitus stood, his attention on the pale face of his Celt. “He’s from your Legion. Your responsibility.”

  Blandus jerked his head in confirmation, then reached out for the girl. It took a moment for Tacitus to realize his cousin was merely offering assistance while he mounted his horse. With grim reluctance he handed his charge over and then lifted her limp body and positioned her against his armored chest.

  One arm wrapped around her, he angled his jaw in an attempt to keep her head upright. Her hair was soft against his throat and the faint scent of wild berries teased his senses.

  He gritted his teeth and urged his horse forward. The Celt was soft and vulnerable and unconscious. It was depraved that he still found her not only intriguing but impossibly desirable.

  Blandus drew alongside. “We’ll have to make our intentions known directly,” he said. “Even injured, this one will attract plenty of attention. I for one don’t want to lose out to your beloved commander.”

  Tacitus shot his cousin a black glare. His commander was Blandus’ uncle, although no blood relation to Tacitus. He was, however, a lifelong friend of Tacitus’ father.

  The thought of the commander touching this Celt was repugnant. But too easily imagined. The older man had an insatiable penchant for young girls, especially those with blonde hair. Already Tacitus could see the lust in the commander’s eyes. There was no doubt that, if he saw her, he would buy her before she even reached the market.

  Blandus made a sound of impatience. “She’s an enemy of Rome, Tacitus. She was captured in battle. Her fate is sealed. Now are you interested or not?”

  Tacitus tightened his hold around the Celt. Her breasts pressed against his bare arm, full and tempting, and the extent of her vulnerability was acid through his gut.

  In the eyes of his countrymen, she was already a slave. It was inevitable and another wave of fury against the Gallian scalded his blood. She could have remained free. He would have ensured she remained free.

  Now all he could do was ensure she remained out of the clutches of his commander.

  “I’m interested.” The words seared his throat and he glared ahead, not able to trust himself to look at his cousin in case he followed with physical violence. It wouldn’t help the situation and it wasn’t as if Blandus was to blame.

  Blandus punched his arm and Tacitus shot him a grim look. His cousin, who knew as much about him as anyone, and more than most, had an odd expression on his face. He knew of Tacitus’ reluctance—of course he fucking knew—but Tacitus was aware he still found it hard to comprehend.

  “You need to get over this aversion.” Blandus’ voice was low, for Tacitus’ ears only. “It’s unnatural. I’m not saying you have to fuck every female slave you own but gods, Tacitus. It’s better than solitary relief.”

  “I’m more than capable of finding women to serve my needs.” That had never been a problem. The only difficulty he had was taking a slave. Despite how many his father had offered him from the age of fourteen.

  “True. But you won’t always have that opportunity. It’s not as if you’d have to take any of them against their will. Some of them are more than eager to share their master’s bed.”

  “Shut up, Blandus.” Irritation spiked through him that he couldn’t gallop away from his cousin. The terrain was too uncertain and he didn’t want to risk injuring the Celt any more than she had been already. “Tell me. What would you do if one of your slave girls refused your advances? Reward her with a few coins, a pretty ribbon for her hair? Or relegate her to the foulest tasks on your estate?”

  From the corner of his eye he saw Blandus recoil, clearly offended. And even through the fog that clouded his mind, Tacitus knew his accusation was unfounded.

  Blandus might enjoy the favors of slave girls, but he never took what was not willingly offered. The trouble was, Blandus couldn’t appreciate the irony. How could a slave ever truly have the choice?

  “It’s as well I know you,” Blandus said. “I trust you don’t speak of such things in general conversation. Your loyalty to Rome would be in serious danger of being questioned.”

  Tacitus grunted. “The Emperor has my loyalty.” He imagined the Celt being shipped off to Rome and instinctively pulled her closer. Her exotic beauty would ensure she was bought for pleasure. They had spoken for only a few moments but he doubted she’d hold her tongue when faced with the prospect of slavery. She could end up beaten, branded. Forced to work in the fields. And end up being used by any man who so much as looked at her.

  Two legionaries emerged up ahead and with an impatient hiss, Tacitus reined in his mount. They were from his Legion, and addressed him as their senior officer.

  “Sir, we believe we’ve found Caratacus’ queen and daughter. The Primus is with them now.”

  He forced his mind away from his Celt’s bleak future. A future he had no intention of her ever enduring.

  “Good.” He turned to Blandus. “Would you take my stead? I’ll continue back wit
h our captive.”

  Blandus gave a sharp nod, but his eyes gleamed with appreciation. He had instantly caught Tacitus’ meaning. The argument was over.

  “Secure a good enough price,” Blandus said as he prepared to follow the legionaries, “and when we’re done, I’ll sell my share back to you at cost. Then you can salve your conscience by granting her manumission.” He paused for a moment. “If they allow you such favor.”

  ***

  Tacitus took her to the makeshift valetudinarium in the camp situated at the base of the mountain, not far from the river. But it was only a temporary camp, swiftly constructed before they’d marched on the enemy that morning. As soon as circumstances allowed, they would return to their permanent garrison, to the southeast of Cambria.

  Once they returned to the garrison, the slave traders would arrive, and those captured during this battle would be sold.

  He shouldered his way into the medical tent. Until they had breached the Celts’ roughly constructed ramparts, Romans had fallen beneath the missiles rained upon them. But once the ramparts had been demolished, his countrymen’s superior training and equipment had decimated the enemy without mercy. Tacitus knew that, considering the scale of the battle, Roman casualties hadn’t been harsh but enough needed treatment for their injuries that would ensure an unconscious Celt wouldn’t be seen until the morning.

  “Marcellus.” He caught sight of the physician he sought. The man he’d known from childhood and the only one here he would trust with the Celt.

  Marcellus, only a year older than Tacitus, strolled over, wiping his hands on a cloth. He eyed the girl with interest.

  “Since when do Tribunes bring in the injured?”

  Tacitus ignored the taunt. “She hit her head on a rock after the arrow impaled her.”

  Marcellus studied her face. “Leave her over there.” He jerked his thumb to the left, where a regimented line of the injured lay on pallets. “We’ll get to her shortly.”

  “No. You’ll treat her now.”