Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3)

by Christina Phillips

  Still Nimue looked at him, waiting for his answer. He was supposed to be meeting with his commander. With an impatient gesture that he could only hope covered his mounting irritation, he swung away from her. “Do whatever you please.” Would he come to regret these hasty words? Somehow he thought he would. “So long as you don’t leave my quarters.”

  ***

  After Tacitus left her, Nimue explored his quarters but finally returned to his bedchamber since that appeared to be the only room where none of his servants would follow her. Just before she closed the door, she was presented with a small pile of clean clothes. They were coarse, the type of garments a peasant would wear, and Nimue had bitten back her instinctive reaction when the woman had given them to her.

  She stood in the middle of the room and glowered down at herself. She would rather wear her torn and blood-stained gown than this…Roman sackcloth. But since she was trying her best not to annoy Tacitus she knew she’d simply have to bear it.

  As she fastened her belt around the rough material, she frowned. She couldn’t understand why her refusal to agree with his demand to become his concubine had so affected him. One would think he required her permission. But how could that be so when the status of a concubine was nothing more than that of a slave?

  She couldn’t fathom the difference, and yet Tacitus’ behavior suggested that, in his eyes, there was a whole Empire of difference.

  With a sigh, she forced the image of Tacitus from her mind. She wasn’t supposed to think of him when he wasn’t with her. Whether he wanted her to be his slave or his concubine was irrelevant, because she had no intention of remaining with him for any length of time.

  The journey from the battle site to this fortification had brought her a lot closer to the magical enclave where Caratacus had shielded his warriors and she knew it was a sign that she could no longer delay in her mission.

  She should pray for Arianrhod’s guidance, but even as the thought formed, unease fluttered through her breast. Her beloved Moon Goddess had been silent and remote since Nimue had been captured, no matter how desperately she’d tried to reach Arianrhod.

  Was her Goddess displeased that Nimue had been captured by the enemy? Or was it because she had not yet managed to secure the escape of the Briton queen?

  For a moment indecision warred through her heart. Since the night of her initiation, Arianrhod’s presence had never been far. Although the Goddess didn’t always answer Nimue’s prayers, never before had she felt so oddly bereft. It was almost as though Arianrhod had turned her back on her.

  No. That possibility was too terrible to even imagine.

  Nimue took a deep breath and tried to calm her racing heart. There had to be a way to show Arianrhod that she was committed to her task. That now they were in the fortification she would no longer delay in her mission.

  To save the queen and princess. And return the shard of bluestone.

  Heat washed through her. She’d almost forgotten about the bluestone. Hastily she searched for the pouch hanging on her belt. She would hold the bluestone and once again beg for Arianrhod’s advice. This time, surely, the Great Goddess would heed her call.

  Where is it? She couldn’t feel the shape of the bluestone through the leather pouches and disbelief punched through her. Frantically she pulled the belt from her waist and dropped it onto the bed. She knew, merely from looking at each pouch, what it contained. And the pouch she had put the bluestone in wasn’t there.

  But it had to be. How could it not? Ignoring the evidence of her eyes, she pulled desperately at the fastenings of the first pouch and tipped the contents onto the bed.

  Her comb, and lengths of colored leather to tie her hair. Just as she had expected.

  Her stomach churned as she tugged open each pouch. The bluestone wasn’t hiding in any of them. Of course it wasn’t. She knew she’d put it in its own pouch. She even knew the exact position on her belt where she had tied it.

  It didn’t matter how long she stared at her belt or her myriad possessions that were now scattered across the bed.

  She had lost the bluestone.

  Her legs gave way and she slumped onto the floor. How had she not known the bluestone was missing? Why hadn’t she checked before?

  Was this the reason Arianrhod refused to hear her pleas?

  Her chest constricted as panic clawed through her breast, causing her heart to hammer erratically against her ribs. When was the last time she’d seen the bluestone? Now she thought about it, she hadn’t touched it since before her capture. Did that mean she’d lost it before Tacitus had found her at the stream?

  Or had he taken it from her afterward when he had taken her dagger and bow?

  But that made no sense. The bluestone was no weapon. She gritted her teeth and pushed herself to her feet. Perhaps the leather ties had become worn and the pouch had dropped from her belt. Perhaps it had fallen onto the ground outside Tacitus’ quarters. Perhaps, after all, this was merely Arianrhod’s way of ensuring Nimue once more focused on her task.

  She clung onto that possibility with grim determination as she left the bedchamber and made her way toward the door. The bluestone would be outside. She knew it. And once it was again in her possession, the Moon Goddess would forgive her for temporarily losing it.

  As soon as she opened the door, the legionary on guard turned toward her. His face was a hard mask of enemy implacability. But she couldn’t let a little thing like that stop her.

  Dusk had fallen but the outside torches gave plenty of illumination. She stepped outside. He immediately blocked her way with one muscled arm.

  “I’m looking for something.” She offered him a guileless smile and hoped he fell for it and couldn’t see the fear beneath. “I think I dropped it out here.”

  His arm didn’t waver. Neither did his expression. “I have orders not to allow you to pass.”

  The fear inched higher in her breast and threatened to paralyze her throat. “I do not wish to pass.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the desperation in her voice. “I simply wish to look around.”

  He towered over her, a great hulk of a man and instinctively she took a step back.

  “I have no wish to force you back inside,” he said. “But I will if I have to.”

  She took another step back, her gaze scanning the ground. But no familiar leather pouch greeted her. Had she really believed it would be this easy? She gripped her unraveling courage together and tried once more. “I must—”

  He didn’t even wait to let her finish. He simply shut the door in her face.

  For a moment, she stared at the door until the reality of her situation slammed through her mind.

  She had lost the bluestone. And although she’d taken it without permission and had intended to use it for her own ends, an insidious sense of something far greater than her own plans hovered on the edge of her consciousness.

  Return what you have taken. The imperious command echoed through her mind, but why did it? And why did it sound so eerily familiar?

  Slowly she turned around, to see Tacitus’ servants staring at her as though she was something unspeakably foul. Her heart jerked in her chest as she remembered all her treasured possessions, scattered across Tacitus’ bed, and she hurried back to his room.

  Relief streaked through her. Nothing had been taken. She sat on the edge of the bed and with shaking fingers returned the contents to their respective pouches, until she came to her mother’s exquisitely engraved torque.

  A shaft of bittersweet pain engulfed her heart as she traced her finger over the gleaming silver. The torque had been passed from mother to eldest daughter for generations, and the bestowal had always been cause for great celebration.

  Except there had been no celebration when her mother had given her the priceless heirloom. Only terror, disbelief and the rank stench of betrayal.

  Her fingers tightened around the silver as she tried to push the memories to the back of her mind. It would do no good dwelling on them now. Not whe
n she had to somehow find the bluestone. And work on gaining Tacitus’ trust—at least enough for him to allow her free access throughout this cursed Roman fortification. How could she discover the whereabouts of the queen if she was forbidden to leave Tacitus’ quarters?

  Voices in the adjoining room penetrated her thoughts. It was a deep, masculine voice but it wasn’t Tacitus and before she could investigate for herself what was happening the door flew open.

  A large Roman in flowing white robes with a purple stripe smiled at her from the doorway. He was the same Roman who had burst into Tacitus’ tent the other day. The one Tacitus had attempted to prevent from seeing her, as she had sat on his bed covered only by his cloak.

  She gave him her haughtiest look and rose to her feet, her heart thudding with trepidation against her ribs. There could be few reasons why this Roman was here, and she doubted any of them had to do with negotiating her freedom.

  The lust in his eyes was evident. And this time Tacitus was not here.

  Her fingers clenched around her torque, but as a weapon it was useless. If only she still had her dagger. To be so defenseless and vulnerable was intolerable. She had never been without a personal weapon at her hip since she had been a child and the extent of her vulnerability tasted foul on her tongue.

  She didn’t need to glance beyond the Roman to know that Tacitus’ servants stood, useless, in the next room. They wouldn’t come to her aid. All she could rely on was her wits and speed, and she was sorely compromised because of her injured shoulder.

  “Greetings,” the Roman said, stepping into the room. He continued to smile at her as if he imagined that might lower her guard. Did he think her a fool? And before the question had even finished forming, she acknowledged the truth.

  Yes, he did. He looked at her and didn’t see a captured enemy warrior. He saw a woman he wanted in his bed. The Gaul, curse him, had been right. It was not a dagger she needed in order to slay this Roman. It was his perception of her that would prove his downfall.

  When she didn’t respond he took another step toward her. “Don’t be afraid,” he said and it was only then she realized he was speaking her language, and not Latin. Did he think her ignorant of his barbaric tongue? The notion stung her pride but she kept silent. Let him think her an uneducated peasant. And on the heels of that thought came another.

  If he thought her a peasant, he would never imagine for a moment what she truly was. Hadn’t she, back in the mountains when Tacitus had first come upon her, known that concealing her identity was her best hope for survival?

  But then she had been dressed as a noble. Now she was dressed as a slave. For all this Roman knew, she might have stolen the bracelets from her dead countrywomen.

  “What is your name?” He injected a false friendly note in his voice. Nimue imagined impaling an arrow through his lying mouth. “Come now, I won’t hurt you.”

  Despite her precarious situation, his arrogant assumption that she was paralyzed with terror irked her. She tilted her jaw at him and only just remembered not to give him a withering glare for good measure. “My name is Nimue.”

  His smile faltered and for a fleeting moment confusion wreathed his features. Belatedly Nimue understood why. Great Goddess, would she never learn to hold her tongue? She might look like a peasant but she certainly didn’t speak like one.

  “Nimue.” She wasn’t sure whether he spoke to her, or himself. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  And now he attempted flattery? By calling her a girl?

  He gave a low laugh and took yet another step into the room. But he didn’t close the door behind him. “There’s no need to look so apprehensive,” he said, and he was so close that if only she still possessed her dagger she could have plunged it through his corrupt heart before he drew another breath. “I mean only to make your acquaintance, nothing more.”

  She flicked a scornful glance over him. His dark chestnut hair was short, as all Romans kept their hair, with only the faintest sprinkling of silver to belie his advancing years. His entire bearing exuded aristocratic authority and the assumption that his slightest command would be obeyed without question.

  “Then there is nothing more to discuss.” He had her trapped between his body and the bed. Self-disgust flooded her veins. Why had she allowed herself to be maneuvered into such a vulnerable tactical position?

  “I can see why the tribune likes you.” The Roman appeared to be amused by her response, which hadn’t been her intention at all. “Although by Jupiter I cannot fathom why he dresses you like the meanest creature of the gutters.”

  The Roman’s criticism of Tacitus oddly annoyed her. She might be offended by the garments he’d left her, but that was between her and Tacitus. “My own gown was ruined.” She didn’t even try for humility anymore. It appeared such a feat was beyond her capabilities. “At least these are clean.” True enough. Even if the rough material did scratch her skin.

  There was no mistaking the amusement that gleamed in his eyes this time. “You should be dressed in the finest of silks and softest of linen.” His lip quirked as if the image pleased him. “I see I shall have to instruct the tribune in such matters.”

  “There’s no need.” She didn’t know why the Roman’s unsubtle censure of Tacitus bothered her so, but the thought of him lecturing Tacitus because of her plagued her senses. And because this Roman’s casual assumption that she couldn’t understand Latin scraped her nerves she decided to reply in his own cursed language. “I am, after all, merely a slave and dressed in garments fit only for a slave.” As she shot the words at him she fixed her torque around her throat. She didn’t know why he managed to so raise her ire, or why she told him she was nothing more than a slave while she flashed priceless jewelry in his face. She knew he was Tacitus’ superior. If he wished he could have her flogged or worse for her behavior. Yet somehow she knew he wouldn’t.

  He didn’t want to disfigure her body. He wanted to possess it.

  The silence after her last thrust stretched between them until finally Nimue risked a fleeting glance. He was staring at her, entranced. It was clear the fact she could not only speak his language but could speak it fluently staggered him.

  A dozen barbed comments danced on the tip of Nimue’s tongue. Yet they remained locked within as her gaze meshed with the Roman’s. And a terrifying thought gripped her heart.

  Had she gone too far? Had this powerful Roman guessed she was no ordinary Celt noblewoman? Does he know I’m a Druid?

  Chapter Eighteen

  The moment Tacitus entered his quarters he knew Nimue was in danger. It wasn’t simply the way his servants, who should have been busy at their tasks, scattered at his arrival. It was a gut reaction that hit him with the force of a physical blow.

  He marched through the room and then stopped dead at the sight of his commander, in his bedchamber, looming over Nimue.

  White rage seared through him and without thinking of the consequences, he stamped into the room. His commander had trapped Nimue by the bed and it was obvious what would have happened if Tacitus hadn’t returned.

  “Sir.” He ground out the word, clenching his fists. To lay hands on his commander could end his career, no matter how good friends he was with Tacitus’ father. But gods, if the bastard didn’t step back from Nimue instantly, Tacitus would bring down the full force of the law on his commander’s head.

  Slowly his commander turned to him, and for a fleeting moment Tacitus could have sworn the older man threw him a look of fury. What the fuck did he have to be furious about? That Tacitus had interrupted his sport?

  “Tribune.” Once again the commander’s face showed no trace of emotion. “Your latest acquisition is enchanting.” Without another glance at Nimue he turned and strode into the other room. Tacitus threw Nimue a black scowl but she didn’t look pleased with herself that she’d managed to snare the interest of his commanding officer. Instead she rubbed her fingers gingerly over her wounded shoulder and guilt flooded through him.r />
  He’d been so consumed by her refusal to accept his offer and the knowledge she’d used sex to prove a point that he’d forgotten about her injury. He should have left the opium with one of his servants so Nimue had access to pain relief. And then something else punched into his brain.

  What in Hades was she wearing? Did it give her perverse pleasure to disobey every word he uttered, even when he was attempting to ease her situation?

  There wasn’t time to take issue with it now. His commander was in the other room and didn’t look happy at being kept waiting.

  “Wait here.” His voice was gruff and she looked at him, but he couldn’t decipher the expression on her face. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want to. Because she looked at him as if everything about him sickened her.

  Abruptly he turned and marched after his commander. It was obvious what the older man wanted. And Tacitus had no intention of agreeing.

  Hands clasped behind his back, his commander turned to face him. “How much did you pay for her?”

  That wasn’t the question Tacitus had expected. He considered refusing to answer but there was little point. His commander could discover the price easily enough if he so wished. And so he named the amount.

  The commander didn’t move a muscle, even though the price was hefty for an injured captive. The silence became oppressive but still the other man didn’t speak or break eye contact. Was he waiting for Tacitus to extend hospitality in the form of using Nimue for the night?

  Then his commander was in for a long wait. Tacitus was not his father, who saw nothing wrong in offering the sexual service of his slaves to favored friends.

  “I’ll pay you double for her.”

  Tacitus clenched his jaw, rage threatening to demolish his civilized veneer. “She’s not for sale.”

  Something dark and dangerous flashed in his commander’s eyes. “Name your price, Tacitus.”

  “There is no price. Sir.” The honorific sounded almost insulting, affixed to the end of his remark in such a manner but Tacitus didn’t care. It wasn’t him defying convention here. It was his commander. Tacitus decided to make the situation absolutely clear. “She belongs to me. I’ve pledged to keep her safe from harm.” Let the other man make what he liked of that. The intention was plain.