He leaned toward her. She didn’t flinch as a slave might have done nor lower her gaze as he might expect from a Roman woman. “I wish you to tell me what the matter is.”
A blush swept over her aristocratic cheekbones, but it wasn’t from modesty. It was mortification. “Why? Do you also own my thoughts?”
Realization punched through his chest. She knew. Who the fuck had told her? Rage thundered through his brain. It didn’t matter who had told her. The damage had been done. Now he had to defuse it.
“I have no desire to own your thoughts.”
“Only my body.” The derision in her voice slammed into him as if she had physically attacked him.
“That’s not true.” But if anyone saw her now, naked and on her knees before her master, what else would they think?
Except he wanted more than simply her willing body. He wanted her irreverent responses, no matter how shocking he sometimes found them.
It was too late for regret. He would have to explain his plans for her now, and then she would see he had no wish for her to be a slave. That it was only temporary. That, in reality, he offered her an honorable status as his concubine.
Her lip curled. “So you bought me for my conversational skills.”
***
Nimue watched Tacitus grit his teeth and she dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. What in the name of the Great Goddess am I doing? Every word out of her mouth deliberately provoked him and she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
She hadn’t meant to say anything after he’d finished rutting with her. She’d held onto her control only through the formidable strength of her Druidic willpower, but it had all but shattered her to rise from his body before embracing her own glorious orgasm.
But frustration thundered through her blood and clouded her good reason. She had intended to be the perfect, malleable slave so he’d find no reason to doubt her. Yet the look on Tacitus’ face suggested that any advance in gaining his trust had now vanished.
All because she couldn’t hold her rebellious tongue.
“I did what I had to do in order to protect you.” He sounded irked. She was torn between wanting to goad him further and belatedly behaving as an obedient slave should.
Except she had never been a slave, and the thought of submitting her will to a master caused her stomach to churn and bile to rise. That the master in question was Tacitus, whom she had foolishly believed to possess honor despite his Roman heritage, made everything unimaginably worse.
If she didn’t bury her pride she could bury all hope of saving the Briton queen and princess, and Nimue’s own honor would be forever tarnished.
She might not be able to fake subservience for her own sake, but she would do it for the sake of those she’d been charged to protect.
“I understand.” She fixed her gaze on the ground between them so he couldn’t see the fury in her eyes. “Do you wish me to bring you the food now?” And I hope you choke on it.
He hissed out a violent curse in Latin, one she had never heard before but its meaning was plain. Clearly, food was not on his immediate agenda.
“I don’t expect your gratitude, Nimue,” Tacitus said and she only just stopped herself from clenching her fists in reaction. She had to view this as she would any other battle maneuver and not allow her personal feelings to dictate her next strategic move. “It was never my intention to enslave you. Once we reach the garrison I intend to secure your manumission.”
He made it sound as if he was bestowing a great favor. She ignored the dull throb in her injured shoulder, ignored the eerie whisper that craved the cursed opium, and focused on finding the right words to respond.
Curse your barbarous Roman guts would gain her nothing but fleeting satisfaction.
“And then I may leave?” She risked glancing up at him, and then couldn’t tear her gaze away. Why did he not look like a hideous monster? Why did he have to glare at her with that indefinable air of injury, as if she was the one in the wrong?
Why could she not simply hate and despise him, the way she should?
“Then you will be my concubine.”
“Your concubine?” What did he mean? In her world a concubine was little more than a sex slave. But Tacitus said the word as if there was no shame attached.
“You will have status as my concubine. You’ll be free but still under my protection and therefore no other man will dare accost you.”
“I’ll be free?” Being the concubine of a Roman sounded different from being the concubine of a high-ranking Celt chieftain. “I can leave if I wish?”
Tacitus’ jaw tightened. “You misunderstand. I’m offering you my continued protection as my concubine. As a free woman as opposed to being a slave.”
He was speaking in riddles. “As your concubine I’ll be free? Why would I need your protection if I can leave at any time?”
Tacitus curled his hands over her shoulders, taking care to avoid her injury. She refused to acknowledge the treacherous tremors that attacked her wherever he touched her. Then he frowned, pulled a cover from his bed and draped it around her as if he had noticed her chilled flesh.
Curse the man. He likely had noticed. Why did he have to be so considerate of her comfort? It made it so hard for her to remember that everything between them was nothing more than a strategy for her survival. But if he was offering her freedom that meant he trusted her. It meant he didn’t truly consider her his slave. She knew it shouldn’t make any difference to how she felt, and yet it did.
“No, Nimue.” He continued to frown at her, his large hands grasping the edges of the blanket across her breasts. “As my concubine you’ll belong to me until the contract is dissolved. Until that time you can’t leave without my permission.”
The foolish hope that he might think more of her than a spoil of war sputtered out of existence. Disbelief flooded her veins, but it was more than disbelief and anger. She was hurt that the best he considered her worthy of was the status of a whore in all but name.
Tacitus wasn’t offering her freedom at all.
She straightened, secretly shocked that somehow she’d leaned closer to him during their exchange.
“I don’t see the difference between what you’ve made me now and what you offer me in the future.”
He actually recoiled, as though she had physically attacked him. When all she’d done was unravel his lying Roman words and displayed the truth for them both to see.
“You don’t see the difference?” He sounded as if she was being deliberately difficult. “You’ll have everything you desire as my concubine. You’ll be safe and want for nothing. It’s an honorable status, Nimue. Not so different from a contracted marriage.”
A Roman contracted marriage. Furious that she needed help to rise from the ground she braced her weight against his leg with her good arm and shoved herself upright. Clutching her makeshift robe around her she glared into his eyes.
Don’t think of his eyes. But it was impossible to look away.
“A Roman wife is little better than a slave.” Her voice was haughty but it took everything she had to keep the foolish tremble locked inside. She wouldn’t let him see how easily he could wound her. She despised the fact he could upset her. “I see no advantage in becoming your concubine when my freedom remains subject to your will.”
“You’re refusing my offer?” Tacitus sounded staggered, as if such a response had never occurred to him. “You don’t wish to become my concubine?”
Why did he care? If he wanted to make her his concubine, what choice did she have?
She tilted her chin at him. It was a futile gesture of pride when, for the moment at least, he wielded power over everything she held sacred. But she couldn’t bow her head, couldn’t beg for his mercy. It would crucify her from the inside out. Yet it was more than that. She knew, deep down, that this Roman would never fall for such a false display of humility. Not from her. She’d lost that advantage, if it ever could have been an advantage, from the moment the
y’d met in the mountains.
“No, I don’t wish to become your concubine.” It would be tantamount to agreeing she wished to be his slave. “I don’t wish to belong to you at all.”
The silence after her words pressed against her ears and thudded inside her skull. Tacitus just looked at her as though he’d never seen her before. As if the fact she’d thrown his offer back in his face was somehow blasphemous.
Then he stood and it took everything she possessed not to take a hasty step backward. He towered over her, a mighty Roman warrior. Her bitterest enemy. And yet she didn’t crave for her dagger so she could carve out his blackened heart. She craved, despicably, for him to hold her in his arms.
He stepped around her, as if by touching her he would become contaminated. He strode to the flap of the tent where he paused and glanced over his shoulder.
“What you want is irrelevant. You belong to me.” His words should have infuriated her, but there was no trace of autocratic pride infusing his voice. Instead his tone was oddly flat, as though his statement gave him no pleasure. “Bathe and eat. Don’t attempt to escape. I will return later.”
He disappeared through the flap in the tent. She followed, pushed open the flap with her shoulder and watched him march into a gloom that was kept at bay by the torches that burned around the Roman camp.
Her fingers clenched around the material and she took a deep breath. The urge to take more opium seeped through her mind, a compelling imperative that Tacitus’ presence had managed to subdue. But now that she no longer constantly fought her body’s responses to the Roman, the alarming need for the drug increased.
She would search the tent in his absence. Surely she would find his hiding place.
As she began to lower the flap, a flurry of darkness swept across the cloudy sky. She froze and narrowed her eyes, peering into the night, but the nocturnal creature had vanished into the surrounding woodland.
And then the unmistakable, haunting sound of an owl shivered through the darkness. Nimue gasped, strained her eyes but could see nothing through the shadows, but it didn’t matter.
Her beloved Arianrhod was with her, in the form of her sacred owl. It didn’t matter how dire her situation appeared. She would prevail. The Goddess had sent her a sign.
With a smile, Nimue closed the tent flap, and the ravaging need to find the opium faded.
Chapter Seventeen
The following afternoon, as they approached the settlement that had sprung up around the garrison, Tacitus still couldn’t comprehend how Nimue had so contemptuously dismissed his offer. It was unheard of. Foreign women simply didn’t refuse when a Roman patrician extended such privilege.
How could she possibly imagine there was any similarity between slavery and concubinage? Every time he thought of it—and he thought of it more frequently than he cared to admit—her total disregard for the honor he’d intended caused fresh disbelief to pound through his head.
He hadn’t expected her to fall at his feet with gratitude. But he hadn’t expected her to react as though he had deeply offended her, either.
It didn’t help that she sat before him on the padded saddle, her back straight, as proud as a heathen queen, without the slightest regard for how she had insulted his honor. But where else could she be but here with him?
She was his slave. His responsibility. And now he faced the stark truth that unless he could change her mind, Nimue would continue to remain his slave for as long as he remained in this primitive province.
Thank the gods he hadn’t procured her manumission before extending his offer. In that case she would be free, no longer under his protection and therefore vulnerable to any of his compatriots who lusted for her.
Did she have no idea of the danger she’d be in? Even if she left the Legion as soon as they reached the settlement, that was no guarantee of her safety. She would be an unprotected woman alone. Did she imagine she could stop a man from raping her if that was his intention? Could she really not understand that he had bought her because it was the only option open to him at the time?
In the back of his mind, the recurring voice reminded him. Nimue would be alone once he left for Rome. Who would protect her then?
But it was a faint voice of reason. Because his cursed pride could not get over the knowledge that Nimue, a native of a conquered land, had refused him.
***
Tacitus led Nimue, still dressed in his tunic and wearing his soiled cloak, to his quarters in the garrison. As befit his status, his quarters comprised of several rooms for his own private use, as well as servants who tended to his everyday domestic needs. Had Nimue agreed to become his concubine her elevated status would ensure all treated her with due respect. As it was, she would be viewed as nothing more than a pleasure slave.
The knowledge burned his gut. He’d never taken a pleasure slave. Had never even been tempted. But yesterday Nimue had acted the part to perfection. She had played it so well, he hadn’t the slightest idea of what she was doing until it was too late.
She had serviced him. As any good sex slave should serve her master. And he had enjoyed every fucking moment. Even now, hours later, his cock jerked at the memory of her touch despite how his pride had been injured.
Her lack of climax had been deliberate. A calculated move to show him that despite appearances she was not, and would never be, under his command.
He opened the door and stood aside as Nimue entered. Despite how she’d sneered at his offer, she never behaved as a slave should. Smothering a grim smile, he followed her and watched her face as she glanced around the room that served as his office. She tried to hide her awe, but for one unguarded moment her eyes widened and a look of disbelief flickered over her face. He couldn’t help but wonder how much greater her awe would be if he showed her his villa in Rome.
Perhaps when his term in Britannia ended, he would take her back to Rome with him. She was, after all, nothing but a slave and a slave was subject to her master’s whims. At least then he would know she was still safe from harm. The thought only served to blacken his mood further.
He turned to his servants who were making a great effort not to stare at the exotic creature he’d brought with him. “Nimue will be staying here. She is to be accorded all due respect.” How far more powerful this introduction would be if he could have called her his concubine. Yet nothing on earth would induce him to call her his slave.
With an imperial gesture, he indicated Nimue should follow him into his bedchamber. It was far smaller than his luxuriously appointed apartments in Rome but at least, thank the gods, it possessed a proper bed. He’d slept on the floor last night, leaving Nimue alone on the makeshift bed. His injured pride and bruised ego had been cold comfort. Every time she had turned over, every time she had sighed as if she was deliberately trying to keep him awake, his blood had burned with need.
Tonight he had no intention of sleeping on the floor. And neither would Nimue. Tonight he would show her that he would not be manipulated when it came to sex. He would make her come and prove, without need for words, that she embraced his touch because she wanted him and not because it was her duty to.
She turned and looked at him.
“Am I to remain here?” She didn’t sound defensive. She sounded regal. Although he wasn’t sure what she meant by her question. Where else would she go?
“You’re still recovering from your wound.” Not that she looked in need of convalescence. Her recovery was nothing short of astounding. “You’ll have ample opportunity to recuperate here.”
An odd expression flickered over her face, as though she had all but forgotten about her injury. Then she swallowed, a strangely vulnerable gesture that inexplicably pierced his chest.
“Yes. I do need to rest.” Then she pressed her lips together as if somehow the confession diminished her. Again he marveled at her fortitude. She insulted him with barely a blink yet she never complained of her physical discomforts. “But what of fresh air and exercise?”
&nb
sp; He saw her point but also knew that given half a chance she’d attempt to escape. And although she wouldn’t get far, the thought of her being dragged back to him like a common slave turned his stomach.
“When I return later we’ll walk together.”
Gods, he needed to arrange suitable clothing for her, otherwise she’d never be able to set foot outside his quarters. Even now, he could imagine the gossip his actions would cause. Who ever heard of a master walking with his slave for no other reason than she needed exercise? But scandal clouded his birth and gossip was something he’d got used to long ago.
Let them talk. Just because he appeared enamored of a foreign woman, a slave no less, would not impact his career.
Nimue pulled off his cloak and tossed it across the end of his bed. His tunic hung on her, too large and too long and yet somehow she managed to make the plain linen unbelievably sexy.
“What shall I do in the meantime?” Her voice was perfectly reasonable and yet he received the distinct impression that it irked her greatly to ask. And as he stared at her, the full weight of her question sank into him.
What in the gods’ names was she going to do all day? Such a mundane thought hadn’t crossed his mind. It appeared a great many things hadn’t occurred to him when he’d made the decision to rescue her from her fate.
He didn’t have the first idea what to tell her. His servants ensured his quarters were clean, his clothes were laundered and his stomach satisfied. Blandus’ comment echoed in his mind. She can be as idle as she pleases during the day. She’ll certainly be kept busy enough at night.
Tacitus resisted the urge to groan. Never before had he possessed servants—or slaves—surplus to requirements. He was certain that of his peers who had concubines not one of them had had to explain to the woman in question what her duties entailed. Nimue wasn’t a gently bred Roman woman who would be content to do whatever it was ladies did during the day. And the one time he’d broached the subject with her she’d looked at him as if he was mad to suggest she might be proficient with the loom.
Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Page 13