Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2)

by Christina Phillips

  But what did it matter how she felt? Until they reached Camulodunon, she was his captive. She could fight the inevitable or she could use it to her advantage. Pretend to succumb, to enjoy his touch. Allay his suspicions that she wanted only to run her spear through his foul heart.

  She’d taken an oath to never enjoy another lover. Partly because she’d been so devastated over the discovery that Aeron, the only man she’d ever loved, was a traitor to their people and partly out of a sense of obscure respect for Gawain’s memory.

  But mostly she’d taken the vow as vengeance against the Morrigan. The goddess who demanded her children should never deny the exquisite gift of sexual pleasures she had bestowed upon them.

  As the Gaul urged the horse forward, blood heated her face, spread across her breast and pooled between her thighs. She could delude herself as much as she liked but the truth was plain. She wanted the Gaul. There was no doubt he would claim her that night.

  He was an enemy of her people. To enjoy his touch was paramount to treason. The Morrigan would rage at the indignity. Curse at the corruption of her decree.

  Her temples pounded and she gripped the wooden-framed saddle to keep her balance as the perfect solution unfolded in her mind like dark, loathsome petals. She could enjoy the Gaul and still keep her vow. Because to willingly embrace the oppressor of Cymru would infuriate Aeron’s evil soul, not touch Gawain’s uneasy rest and most of all incense the Morrigan beyond endurance.

  Chapter Three

  Trogus was still battling a black rage and an unrelenting erection as he and the other four exploratores entered the garrison, leading the traders’ horses. He wasn’t due any leave for days, so visiting a local whore was out. And unless he managed to drag a passing slave girl into a dark corner and slake his lust, all he had to look forward to was self-gratification.

  Again.

  Fucking Dunmacos. Shoving his nose where it wasn’t wanted. Trogus couldn’t even report him, since that would result in the bastard informing the praefectus that they’d attacked a group of traders.

  Fucking stupid law. Who gave a shit if a few more Cambrians perished? As far as he was concerned they were all fair game. Being posted to this barbaric province after the exotic splendors of the East was intolerable. Why shouldn’t they avail themselves of a few luxuries when opportunity arose?

  The horses they’d have to give up to the Legion, but the enameled bridles, jewel-encrusted daggers and other various goods would fetch a good price on the black market.

  But he’d coveted the dark-haired woman. The bitch who’d murdered his fellow tribesman. If Dunmacos didn’t kill or sell her before returning, then by the gods Trogus would find a way to have her.

  And make her pay.

  So intent on the many and varied ways he intended to make the Cambrian whore pay for depriving him of both quenching his lust and the company of a man he’d considered a friend, he scarcely acknowledged the greeting of an approaching auxiliary.

  Until the other man stopped in front of him and gripped hold of the metal bridle, blocking his path.

  “Trogus. You serve with Dunmacos, don’t you?”

  Trogus shifted on the saddle, trying to ease the frustration pounding through his cock. “What of it?”

  The auxiliary jerked his head toward his silent companion. “Gervas is blood kin. He arrived with the new contingent from Carthage this morn.”

  Trogus hid his disgust. Dunmacos was bad enough, but another of his kin in the same garrison was pushing sanity.

  “Dunmacos is on dispatches.” He wondered if that was common knowledge. “I believe.”

  Gervas stepped forward. Despite the advantage of still being mounted, a chill slithered along Trogus’ spine. Bastard looked even meaner than Dunmacos.

  “It’ll be good to see my cousin again.” Gervas’ pale blue eyes bored into Trogus’ and he resisted the urge to look away, despite the understated aura of menace that radiated from the other man. “I weary of following his progress through reputation alone.”

  Trogus grunted in grudging assent. Dunmacos’ reputation was certainly admirable and the reason why Trogus took his shit. He had no desire to be facing the wrong end of the other Gaul’s sword.

  “If my sources are true and he’s on dispatches, you’ll see him again before the week ends.”

  Gervas’ fingers idly stroked the handle of his sword. “I look forward to it.”

  Chapter Four

  Although he wasn’t holding shield or sword, through sheer habit Bren used leg control to guide his horse along the wide Roman highway. It had nothing to do with being unwilling to move his hands from Morwyn’s firm thighs.

  He glanced down at her head. Her hair was tousled, matted with dried earth and crushed grasses, and he resisted the impulse to unbraid her plait and use his fingers to unsnarl her tangles.

  Gods. Briefly he closed his eyes. What had he been thinking to drag her with him? But what else could he have done—left her there, alone and defenseless?

  If Trogus had returned, her life would be forfeit. And even if she’d escaped the other auxiliary’s wrath, the forests and mountains were swarming with legionaries far from home who wouldn’t think twice about using a lone Cambrian woman for their own barbaric pleasure.

  Isn’t that what I intend?

  He’d done many unpalatable things in his life. Taking a woman by force, even if that woman happened to be an enemy, wasn’t one of them.

  And Morwyn wasn’t his enemy, no matter what she thought. Would she put up much resistance if he demanded her compliance? Had he imagined the way her lush body had molded against his as he’d pinned her to the forest floor?

  He let out a measured breath and forced the memory aside. Now wasn’t the time to start with the erotic fantasies. He was behind schedule, his progress inevitably hampered by his unexpected traveling companion, and needed to make up the miles before they could rest this night.

  Much as it galled him to admit, the graveled highway certainly improved the speed of travel. Unfortunately it also made troop movement easier from one side of Britain to the other.

  But the rebels had no intention of fighting the Romans in the open countryside. Their strength lay in their knowledge of the land, the ability to melt into the forests and mountains. They’d weary the Legions with incessant attacks, demoralize their ranks and insidiously spread the rot from within.

  Gaul, the homeland of his father’s ancestors, had finally succumbed to Roman dominance during his great-grandfather’s lifetime.

  Eight years ago the first Legion contaminated Briton soil, the birthplace of his mother’s lineage. But it had been another three years before he’d taken heed of her kin’s call for rebellion.

  Two years later he’d buried his old life. But when they triumphed over their enemies, as they would, what then? He’d no longer be Dunmacos. Would no longer need to pretend an allegiance that turned his gut with disgust.

  He’d be free to return to his previous existence. Except there was nothing left for him to return to.

  At the first post house he pulled over to change horses.

  “Need any help?” He wondered if the woman was exaggerating the extent of her injuries, in an attempt to lower his guard. It wouldn’t work.

  She pressed her lips together and swung her leg over. “No, thank you.” She took her time reaching the ground and then swayed as if momentarily disorientated. “Are we stopping to eat?”

  He unhitched the saddle packs as a young boy ran from the stables to assist.

  “No.” When was the last time she’d eaten? He turned to the boy. “We’ll take bread and dates with us.” He had military rations but why use those when fresh food was available?

  Morwyn heaved a sigh and he glanced at her. She was looking at the timber-built post house with its flint courtyard as if she’d never seen anything like it before. She probably hadn’t. It had been constructed for use by the Emperor’s Imperial Post, and the only reason they could travel this way was bec
ause he’d been granted a special permit from the garrison’s commander.

  “Do you make this journey often?” She limped toward him and he glared at the way her eye had swollen shut since they’d left the forest. It looked as if she’d been punched in the face.

  “Rarely.” But he knew Camulodunon well. In his youth he’d spent a great deal of time in the ancient Briton town, before the Romans had invaded.

  It was different now. No longer the place that resided in his memories. But beneath the gaudy Roman veneer it was still the birthplace of his maternal blood kin.

  He jerked his head toward the building in silent command, and with a dark, sideways glance she obeyed.

  “The Romans must think highly of you if they trust you with their secrets.” The way she said it left no doubt that she wasn’t offering him a compliment.

  “They do.” Not enough to ordinarily trust him with such a mission. These top-level dispatches were usually entrusted only to Roman officers of the cavalry, not foreign auxiliaries, no matter how impressive their equine skills.

  It had not been without risk of discovery, but his persistent contamination of the food chain had finally borne fruit, and dozens of legionaries were convinced Charon waited in the shadows to ferry them across their cursed Styx. Added to the usual numbers of injured and sick, the Legion was severely undermanned. And so he, because of Dunmacos’ reputation from the past and his own actions in the present, had been given the honor.

  He swiftly dealt with the formalities of changing horses and didn’t miss the furtive glances the post house master shot Morwyn’s way. It was obvious he thought Bren responsible for the woman’s battered state.

  Another outrage to add to Dunmacos’ foul reputation. Gods, he loathed the man, even though the man had been dead these last three years. The identity he’d assumed clung to him like a cloud of putrid flies. Sometimes he doubted he’d ever be able to scrub the residue from his soul.

  When the fresh horse was ready he once again mounted first and hauled Morwyn up in front, her fingers strong as they gripped his arm, her luscious lips compressed in uncompromising disapproval.

  And once again she held herself rigid and proud, as if his slightest touch repelled her.

  He dumped the bundle of bread and dates between her thighs and she stiffened further, as if he’d attempted to grope her. Irritation, edged with raw lust, knifed low in his gut. He’d told her he wouldn’t touch her unless she wanted him to. But then, why should she believe him, when she thought him a traitor to his own people?

  “Eat.” It was a harsh command. “There’ll be nothing else until we stop for the night.”

  ***

  Morwyn gripped the saddle with both hands and gritted her teeth. How much longer did this barbarian intend them to travel? The sun was sinking on the horizon and she was in sore need to relieve herself. But she’d rather bite off her tongue than confess to such weakness.

  Twice they’d changed horses since leaving the forest. He’d scarcely uttered two words to her. Not that she wanted to converse with him. But curse the gods, she would do almost anything to abandon riding and rest her head for the night.

  Except before she could rest, she would have to submit to his bestial cravings. Anticipation shivered through her womb and dampened her sensitive core. Her fingers dug more securely into the timber-framed saddle and she glared at the handful of circular wattle-and-daub huts in a village some distance from the newly constructed Roman road.

  She would enjoy multiple orgasms this night with the enemy of her people. And each one would be a spear through the heart of the Morrigan. Each one mock the twisted soul of Aeron.

  Gawain would never know.

  Heat, heavy and languorous, licked her sensitive clit. She tensed the muscles in her legs and fought the overpowering urge to squirm, to relieve at least one pressure, because soon she wouldn’t have to ignore her body’s demands anymore. Soon, this Gaul bastard would take her and she could slake her pent-up lust without guilt or shame.

  The Briton village receded and up ahead she saw Roman-built dwellings, and relief washed through her as she felt the horse slow. Her spine was fit to splinter. How often during this interminable journey had she battled against the desire to relax her muscles and sink back against the Gaul’s unyielding chest?

  As he pulled up outside the largest building she slashed her treacherous thoughts. She would have him. But she would never show him the slightest weakness. An enemy used vulnerability for his own gain.

  Limbs stiff to the point of inflexibility, she allowed him to help her dismount. His hands were surprisingly gentle, as if he guessed her fatigue. Instantly she straightened, ignoring the way her bones burned in protest, and shot him a sharp glance.

  For a moment she imagined she saw an oddly brooding expression in his green eyes, as if he regretted making her ride so hard without first tending her injuries. But then he turned away, barked orders at a terrified-looking boy, and marched into the building.

  After a brief hesitation she followed him. There wasn’t anyplace else she could go. But still that odd look haunted her, burying inside her brain as if trying to show her something of infinite importance.

  Whispers drifted through her mind but they made no sense. Impatiently she knocked them aside, dismissed them.

  Yet still they lingered. Insistent and intruding. An intriguing, if impossible, supposition.

  I am the Gaul’s vulnerability.

  ***

  The inside of this Roman dwelling was, like the previous two they’d stopped at, constructed from timber and stone, and the walls were straight like their roads, not curved like the Briton roundhouses. But it was larger, different, and she was reminded of the taverns and brothels that had sprung up around the Roman fortifications in her beloved Cymru.

  The Gaul—she couldn’t bring herself to use his name, even inside her own mind, as if that would somehow diminish the extent of his enmity—was talking to the innkeeper. Morwyn walked as regally as she could manage across the stone floor toward them. She was no slave to remain in the background. No meek Roman matron who hovered behind her master. Only when she reached the Gaul’s side did she remember her plan to show subservience in order to make him lower his guard around her.

  Too late now. Not that he appeared to notice her. He was too busy issuing commands of the innkeeper, who, after one swift glance at her, riveted his attention on the Gaul.

  “And make sure the water’s hot,” he said in Latin, by way of dismissal, and the innkeeper all but bowed in his anxiety to assure him the water would, most certainly, be hot.

  Morwyn clutched her gown and fisted her fingers in the soft fabric. She couldn’t think of water. Anything but water. And she could no longer deny her need. She’d have to ask.

  “This way.” The Gaul barely glanced at her. “The inn has private latrines.”

  She hobbled after him, no longer able to keep up her haughty pretense, but since he wasn’t looking at her that didn’t matter. They bypassed the tavern where drunken men groped half-clad, dull-eyed girls, and went toward the back of the building where he led her into a side room.

  She pulled up short and stared at the long bench, with its six openings cut into the timber seat. Affront bubbled deep in her gut, which served only to aggravate her pressing need further.

  “I don’t use Roman conveniences.” She emphasized the word so he would be in no doubt as to her opinion of such foreign intrusions.

  He shrugged and finally looked at her. His face was all hard lines and uncompromising angles and again his eyes fascinated her, in a way nothing about him should fascinate her.

  “Suit yourself.” He planted himself down. “It’s here or nowhere. You’re not going outside.”

  She glared at him, then flung a withering look at the nearest opening. It looked . . . disgusting.

  “I refuse to sit on something countless others have placed their naked arses upon.” She curled her toes and couldn’t prevent swaying. “It’s unclean
.”

  “Then squat.”

  Bastard. She hiked up her gown and angled herself over the loathsome hole.

  “I suppose you prefer this barbaric method, do you?” She tossed him a resentful glance and struggled to keep her balance with her protesting muscles. Ah. The relief shimmered through like countless minuscule orgasms. Bliss.

  “In truth? Yes. I find it preferable to digging my own hole.”

  Curse the gods, was he laughing at her? Or was she imagining that annoying quirk to his lips? As if he found her predicament amusing?

  “I, on the other hand,” she said with more hauteur than her current position warranted, “prefer the sanctified rituals of my ancestors.”

  She almost lost her precarious balance when his lips jerked into a definite grin. It vanished within an instant, as if it had crept upon him unawares, but gods. What a difference it made to his harsh features. For one oddly lingering moment she wished she could extend that lightening of his countenance; wipe the ingrained lines from his brow and the grim set to his mouth.

  Before she had the chance to digest such treacherous thoughts, a man stumbled into the room, obviously a Briton by his hair and clothing. His lecherous leer floundered when she turned toward him, and then the Gaul was on his feet, in front of her, shielding her from the other’s eyesight.

  Unsure what to make of that, she shot a scandalized glance at the sponge on a stick, which was clearly designed as some kind of cleaning device, and shuddered in horror.

  “I’m finished.” She stepped forward and he instantly moved out of her way as if physical contact with her was the last thing he wanted. Probably because she was still covered in the residue of her earlier battle. Well, if he allowed her outside, she could find a stream, couldn’t she, and cleanse herself? Because did he really imagine she enjoyed being covered in dried blood and gore from her enemies?