“It’s the praetor.” It wasn’t a question. “I’ve told you, Antonia, you don’t need to concern yourself about him. There’s nothing he can do.”
There was a great deal the Roman could do, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on that.
“No.” Antonia’s voice was eerily calm and a strange blankness descended in her eyes. “He has nothing to do with this decision. You are a Celtic warrior. I have the blood of Rome in my veins. We always knew our time together was short. How could it be anything else? It was never our fate to be together.”
She sounded so reasonable. As though she believed every word.
Frustration ripped through him. Everything she said was true. Yet so much had changed since that day he’d first decided he wanted Antonia in his bed.
And then a chill rippled along his spine. Things had changed for him. But had they changed for Antonia? It had never occurred to him before that she might only—still—see him as an entertaining diversion.
But he’d stopped believing that about her from the moment he’d discovered she had never taken a lover before him. She was nothing like the other Roman women he’d had. In any way.
“If Rome had never invaded this isle then you’re right. It would never have been our fate to be together.” He gentled his grip, slid his hands along her arms and grasped her hands. “But Rome did invade. We did meet. We can forge our own destiny, Antonia.”
She shivered but before he could take that as a good sign and wrap her in his arms, she straightened her already rigid spine and pulled her hands free.
“That is nothing but a foolish child’s fantasy.” Her voice was pure ice and her eyes glittered like a frozen woodland stream. “I haven’t once imagined we could ever share anything more than this fleeting affair. I cannot believe you have, either.”
Fury churned through his chest that she dared compare him to a foolish child. And in this matter, no less. The last thing he’d wanted was to grow to care for her. Yet he had.
Even as his heart pounded against his ribs, he knew it was more than rage. More than wounded warrior pride. He refused to acknowledge the ache in his heart and focused on the anger.
Because he knew how to handle anger.
“Spoken like a true patrician.” Contempt dripped from every word. But the contempt was for himself. Had he really been so blinded by Antonia’s sweet nature that he’d imagined she felt more for him?
“Except I’m not a patrician, Gawain.” She gave him an oddly vulnerable smile that shattered his previous thought. He hadn’t been mistaken. She did feel more for him than she admitted. “In the eyes of Rome I’m but a merchant’s daughter, tainted by the blood of my father.”
He knew her mother had been noble-born. In his eyes, she was a Roman patrician by virtue of her maternal heritage but he had no compunction in using the empire’s prejudice to his advantage.
“Then you have no blood ties to Rome. We can forge our own life together in the far north.”
It wasn’t the way he’d imagined telling her of his plans for their future. But surely she would agree with him.
She had to.
“The far north?” There was a wistful note in her voice and her eyes lost focus for a moment, as if she was lost in the possibility of a new life in a new land. “The mountains of Caledonia?”
“Yes. The land of the Picts. We can leave as soon as your daughter arrives in Britain.”
The prolonged silence after his words thundered in his ears. Antonia had once again broken eye contact and was staring at his chest. He fought the urge to pick her up, fling her onto his bed and fuck her until she could think of nothing but him. Until the thought of living without him was forever erased from her mind.
And then she spoke. “My daughter is a patrician.”
The rage burst through his veneer of calm. “Her fucking father would have murdered her. I will cherish her, Antonia, as though she were my own.”
Her face was so pale for a moment he feared she might faint. But he should have known better. Antonia might look fragile, but at her core she possessed the strength of a warrior.
“But how will you cherish her, Gawain? Should my daughter suffer the life of a peasant, simply because I enjoy your sexual prowess?”
Her softly spoken words rammed through him, ugly and offensive. But there was no condemnation in her eyes. She spoke only the truth.
What life could he offer her or her daughter? They would be fugitives from Rome. He would be hunted as an abductor. A primitive hut was all he could promise her until his warrior skills provided them with better.
“We may not have the luxuries you’re used to.” His voice was stiff with pride. “But we will never live like peasants.”
But in the land of the Picts, would his noble heritage and ancient blood links to the gods be enough to elevate him through their ranks? He had never doubted it before. But how could he ask Antonia to give up her pampered lifestyle for one when she might never own anything more than a rammed earth floor?
If she loved him, none of that would matter.
The question thudded in his mind. Unanswered.
“I’ve learned something else since coming to Britannia.” Now she didn’t look at him at all. Her gaze was fixed on one of the many holes in the wall, where sunlight spilled through. “I miss the vibrancy of Rome. This far-flung province has its merits but I have no desire to remain here permanently. I wanted to tell you myself, before you find out from someone else.” She hesitated and glanced at him, before once again focusing on the broken, dirty wall. “I’ve decided to marry the praetor.”
“You don’t love him.” He flung the accusation at her. Denial hammered through his brain. She couldn’t marry the praetor. The very thought of it disgusted him.
Devastated him. He shoved that thought aside.
She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Love has little to do in such matters. It is an advantageous match, for the daughter of a merchant. I’ll no longer be a burden on my father, and my daughter will be raised as the patrician she is.”
Her arguments were reasoned. Logical. Marriage was often nothing more than a strategic maneuver to bring more power or prestige to those involved. It happened in his society, between the royal families and chieftains of various tribes.
But not between Druids.
“You can’t marry him, Antonia.” He would sink to the lowest depths and make her confront her deepest fears, if it meant she’d change her mind. “All he wants is a brood mare. He’d never accept your decision to have no more children.”
Unlike him. Had he ever told her that? How could he tell her that now?
For a brief, heartbreaking moment her lip trembled. He hated himself for causing her more pain. But he would make it up to her. He would spend the rest of his life making it up to her.
If she only gave him the chance.
And then she spoke. “The praetor already knows of my decision. He has no desire for more children. He merely…wishes me to be a mother to his sons.”
His chest tightened. Antonia had no intention of discussing this matter, or trying to find a solution. Their affair had been, as she’d always maintained, nothing but a brief liaison.
“You’ve obviously thought this through.” His tone was bitter. “You’re a true Roman noblewoman, whatever your precious empire might think.”
She flinched, as though he had physically struck her with his barbed words. The knowledge he could hurt her did nothing to salve the ache consuming his chest.
“I don’t want us to part with angry words between us.” For a fleeting moment, she caught his gaze. “I’ll never forget you, Gawain. I hope one day you’ll remember me with…kindness.”
Kindness was not the way he would remember Antonia. “Perhaps I should carve your name into my torque after all.” He allowed his gaze to roam over her, from her messy hair to her dainty sandals and then back up again. “That way I will always recall your name when your face has faded into the mists of time.”
Who was he trying to fool? There was not the slightest chance in all of Annwyn that her face would ever fade from his memory. There was no need to carve her name into his torque.
She was carved into the beating core of his heart.
Her fingers clutched her gown but she didn’t otherwise react to his derisive taunt. She didn’t laugh with contempt or tell him he was delusional if he imagined she had ever wanted him to be a part of her future.
He could think whatever he wished of her. But the truth was Antonia was as he had always believed.
A strong, honorable woman. She’d never promised him anything. She was doing nothing but trying to give her child the best life possible. How could he condemn her for that?
Yet he did. He understood her motives but he could not forgive her for it.
“Farewell.” Her whisper was so soft he scarcely heard it above the frantic thud of his heart. Then she turned and left his world.
And returned to her own.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Gawain remained rooted to the spot, his gaze riveted on the closed door. She would come back. She had to come back.
But he knew she would not.
He turned and slammed his fist through the wall of the hut. The pain gave only momentary satisfaction and it didn’t even touch the pain eating its way through his chest.
His heart.
Except she had taken his heart with her.
He doubled over, his hands grasping his thighs. Blood dripped from his knuckles and he watched the crimson drops soak into the earthen floor.
She was going to marry the praetor. Share his bed. Allow him to touch her body. And for that, he would take her back to Rome.
Rome. The city where she had endured so much heartache and loss. Where her bastard ex-husband was.
Slowly he straightened. From the moment he’d met Antonia she had given him the impression she despised that jewel of the empire. After he’d grown to know her better, his first impression had only strengthened.
Antonia did not love Rome. Her father was immensely wealthy but she had never flaunted that wealth as some daughters might. She was, as she had once told him, easily pleased.
Why would she want to take her beloved Cassia back there, when she had gone to such pains in order to bring her child to Britain?
He knew the praetor lusted for Antonia. Knew he was the kind of man who would do anything to get what he wanted. But Antonia, to his knowledge, had never given the praetor any encouragement.
It wasn’t Rome that Antonia wanted. It was the chance to give her daughter a good life. And Antonia possessed the means to give Cassia a good life here, in Britain.
Antonia hadn’t consented to marry the praetor of her own free will. It was because that bastard Roman had blackmailed her into it. And the only way Antonia could be blackmailed into doing such a thing was if he’d threatened her beloved daughter.
Gawain took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. No one would force Antonia to do something against her will.
He owed the praetor a visit.
***
Antonia kept her spine rigid and head high as she walked from Gawain’s roundhouse back toward the villa. She’d known their final farewell would break her heart. But she’d never imagined Gawain would look so devastated.
He had imagined them sharing a future together. Had thought they could find a life in Caledonia. He’d never know how dearly she had wanted to fall into his arms and beg him to take her and Cassia far from Camulodunum. How she, too, had dreamed of such a future.
She blinked rapidly to clear the foolish tears from her eyes. She had to keep up this despicable façade for Carys.
Her steps faltered and against her better judgment, she turned and looked back at Gawain’s roundhouse. She’d desperately wanted them to part amicably but his final taunt had shattered all hope of that.
He despised her, as she’d always feared he would. Yet better that he despised her, believing she would chose the decadence of Rome above him, than for him to guess the truth.
Her throat ached with grief as she entered the courtyard. Gawain’s face was etched into her heart and soul. She would never be able to forget him, even if she wanted to. How long would it take for his pride to erase every last memory of her from his mind?
Carys was on her knees, tending to her herb garden. Antonia forced a smile to her lips.
“Sweet Cerridwen save us.” Carys’ eyes widened as she took in Antonia’s appearance. Antonia’s face heated. She’d forgotten the state of her gown and hair. But what did it matter? Her palla would hide the worst of the damage until she arrived home.
Carys stood up and planted her hands on her hips. She was once again wearing a Celt inspired gown and looked little like the noblewoman she played for the outside world and every inch the foreign princess she truly was.
“What is Gawain thinking, to let you walk out like that? He should have come and found me for a replacement gown. And you know you’re always welcome to use the bathhouse.”
“Yes, I know.” To her horror, her voice was husky. Until this moment, she hadn’t considered that her actions would also affect her relationship with Carys. She liked the Celtic woman. But she knew Carys was fiercely loyal. Why would she want to remain Antonia’s friend after knowing how she’d hurt Gawain?
And how desperately she wished to keep Carys’ friendship. It seemed they were both destined to live in Rome, after all. How wonderful it would have been to know a noblewoman there who hadn’t once turned her back on Antonia when she had most needed support.
“Are you well?” Carys frowned and took a step toward her. “What has Gawain said to you?”
She had to pull herself together. “Nothing.” At least her voice no longer betrayed her shredded heart. “All is well, Carys. I—I have good news. I am to marry the praetor.”
Carys stared at her in disbelief. “The praetor?” Her tone left no doubt as to her disgust. “Antonia, you cannot do this. If you tell your father you don’t love him, he will never force you into this.”
Carys sounded so certain. How odd. And yet how right she was. After the praetor had left, apparently satisfied that her shocked silence equaled acceptance, her father had barely said a word when she’d told him of her marriage plans.
Perhaps he would have more to say this evening, when the praetor returned to make their betrothal official.
“It has nothing to do with love.” Did Celtic nobles only ever marry when their heart was involved? Or was that something peculiar to Druids?
Was Carys a Druid, too? The thought slid into her mind without any shock or denial. It seemed, now, perfectly possible that she was a Druid even if she had married a Roman tribune and lived the life of a patrician.
It was, after all, only one more layer on the façade Carys portrayed to the empire.
“But…” Uncharacteristically Carys appeared lost for words. “But this is not Cerridwen’s will.”
“Why should your goddess be interested in my fate? I’m not a child of Cerridwen.” No, she was a child of Juno. And once again Juno had failed her.
Great goddess forgive me. She didn’t mean her treacherous words.
Yes I do. Juno had let her babies die. And now she merely watched as Antonia walked away from the only man she had ever loved.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow move on the far side of the colonnade. Inexplicably a shiver chased over her arms. How long had the shadow been there, listening to their conversation?
A regal woman emerged into the sunlit court. Her long auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders and her gaze remained fixed on Antonia.
“Mother.” Carys appeared flustered, another state Antonia had never before witnessed. “Let me introduce my dear friend.”
Before Carys could continue, the woman held up her hand in an imperial gesture. Carys immediately fell silent. Although the woman’s eyes never left Antonia’s, she had the eerie certainty that the older woman had not only taken in h
er disheveled appearance but despised her for it.
“I know who she is.” There was the faintest trace of contempt in her tone. Obviously she knew Gawain, and had overheard everything. Antonia tensed her nerves for further insult. “You are Cassia’s daughter.”
Chapter Thirty
Shock punched through Antonia’s breast. Of everything she might have imagined the older woman saying, this hadn’t even crossed her mind. How was it possible this Celtic noblewoman—queen—knew her mother’s name?
“You knew my mother?” It was impossible, but what other explanation could there be?
“I knew of her.” The queen paused beside her daughter, who looked as staggered as Antonia felt. “Your father spoke of her often.”
Antonia clutched her gown in a futile attempt to make sense of the queen’s words. But they made no sense.
“How—” She cleared her throat, tried again. “How could you know my father? He lived in Gallia until he moved to Britannia three years ago.”
“No, foolish girl. Not the man who raised you. I’m talking about the man who sired both you and Carys.” The queen’s deep blue eyes glittered. Antonia suppressed a shudder and the urge to back away. She wouldn’t allow this woman to intimidate her, even though it was obviously the queen’s intention.
“You lie.”
“So.” The queen raked her gaze over Antonia. When she finally looked her in the face again some of her antagonism had faded. “You truly are ignorant of the circumstances surrounding your birth.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” But her father’s recent outburst thundered through her mind. Her mother was murdered by the hand of a Druid.
“Is that why Cerridwen sent me visions of Antonia before I even knew of her existence?” Carys’ voice was hushed. “Is that why my goddess charged me to embrace a woman of Rome? Because she is my half sister?”
“I am only surprised,” the queen said, turning to Carys, “that Cerridwen didn’t share this knowledge of your blood kin with you sooner.”
“But my father—”
Tainted (The Druid Chronicles Book 4) Page 24