Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2)

by Christina Phillips

  His gaze scorched her naked flesh and the knowledge he so desired her pleased her more than it should, but what did it matter? No one would know how much she wanted him. No one but the Morrigan. And that cursed goddess was the only one who needed to know.

  Tentatively she dipped one finger into the water. It was hot. Much hotter than the warm springs of Cymru. The thought of immersing her body into such contained, wet heat was oddly enticing.

  “Do you need more cold water?” His voice rasped, as if his self-control were in imminent danger of disintegrating.

  She slid her hand and wrist into the tub. It was more than bearable. “No.” Gripping the side of the tub more securely, she gingerly stepped inside, allowing her arms to take the bulk of her weight.

  Slowly she sank down and a startled wheeze gusted from her lungs as the wet heat engulfed her legs, thighs and belly and lapped against the undersides of her breasts. The water was hot but shockingly delicious as it bathed her grazed skin and sore muscles.

  Her fingers still gripped the edge of the tub as if it were her lifeline, and with effort she forced them to relax and sank against the back of the tub. Although she was still irritated he hadn’t allowed her to bathe in the nearby river, she had to admit this method had merit.

  “How do you like it?” His smoky voice weaved into her mind, as hot as the water and infinitely more sensuous.

  She considered telling him she hated it. But somehow she couldn’t muster up the energy to project an emotion she was far from feeling. And besides, it was too late in the day to deliberately antagonize him. She could be magnanimous when victory was within her grasp.

  “More than I should.” She slid a little farther into the water, feet braced against the end of the tub, hair floating around her submerged shoulders. “This is pure Roman decadence.”

  “They have their uses.”

  She cracked open one eye, realizing only as she did so that she’d been perilously close to sliding into tranquil oblivion. He still reclined on the bed, still grasped his cock beneath his tunic—if only he were naked so I could watch—and his gaze was still fixed on her.

  For a moment she pondered on his comment. It had sounded very un-Roman. As if he didn’t think much of them. But that couldn’t be so. He worked for them. Why would he pledge them his loyalty unless he believed in their ways? Believed in their arrogant determination to conquer and subdue the civilized world?

  The thought slithered from her mind. It wasn’t important. But staying awake was. Languidly she pulled the stopper from her pot and massaged the lotion into her wet hair and scalp. The essence of spring flowers in hidden glades steamed from the water and permeated the air, far more aromatic than whenever she cleansed in rivers or streams.

  Taking a deep breath, she plunged beneath the scented heat to rinse her hair, and the side of her face throbbed in jagged protest. She shot upward, coughed out water and cupped her tender cheekbone. How badly injured was it?

  The Gaul instantly ceased his self-gratification. “Does your face hurt? Do you have anything you can take for it?”

  Of course she did. She possessed a vast variety of pain inhibitors, but she wasn’t going to tell him that, because depending on quantities and combinations they could also be used as potent poisons.

  Not that she still intended to poison him. At least, not yet.

  With difficulty she forced her hand from her cheek. She would show no weakness before him. “It doesn’t hurt.” It simply throbbed and stung as if tiny fires blazed across her flesh. She could deal with it.

  He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue the point. Nor did he resume his previous pastime. After a moment’s thought she decided that was for the best. She wanted him hot and hard and desperate. Not partially sated by his own hand.

  She lifted one leg from the tub and rested her foot on the edge. She would give him something worth watching, and save the best till last when he could no longer contain himself. A smile of anticipation tugged at the corners of her lips as she washed away the dirt from battle and travel. She flexed her muscles and allowed him to view the shapely form of calf and glimpse of thigh. And then she administered the same dedication to her injured leg, slow, sensuous, and the heated essence of springtime and undercurrent of blistering desire thudded in the air around them.

  Beneath the water she slid her hand over her mound and across her sensitized pussy. Without conscious thought her fingers eased her swollen lips apart, felt wetness intrude and imagined it was the Gaul exploring her sheath, tantalizing her pulsing clit.

  She caught sight of him staring at her, eyes blazing, body taut. And recalled it wasn’t the Gaul touching her. She was touching herself, arousing herself, and if she continued, she would come over her fingers, come in this bath, come before her watching enemy.

  Lust pounded through her mind and flooded her veins. Shivers danced through her at the pleasure she’d take in watching his face as she brought herself to climax. But that was a fantasy she could never indulge. Because by doing so, she would please the Morrigan. And she would never again willingly please that goddess.

  But still her finger teased and pressure thundered, overwhelming, demanding to be sated. She pressed down on her swollen flesh, imagined it was the Gaul’s cock causing such exquisite friction, and a moan of frustration escaped before she clamped her teeth together and dragged her reluctant hand across her belly.

  She hadn’t denied the goddess satisfaction for so many torturous moons only to surrender now, when victory was so close. Only a few more moments and she would no longer need to fight her body’s primal urges. Would no longer need the mild sedatives she’d began taking at night to calm the molten desire for completion that raged in her blood.

  The sedatives that kept the dreams at bay.

  Dreams so visceral she’d feared them visions. Feared what the visions tried to foretell. And so she’d convinced herself they were merely bad dreams from her memory and not glimpses of a terrifying future from a vindictive goddess.

  Shivers skittered over her arms and she pushed the thoughts aside. Tonight, even without recourse to her magic potions, she need have no fear of either simmering desire or spine-chilling dreams keeping her awake.

  She cupped her aching breasts, skin slippery with lotion, and brushed her thumbs over erect nipples. I have to stop. But need coiled deep within, a ravenous beast she’d denied for too long, need that corroded her senses and screamed through her blood for blessed release.

  Through the scented haze that steamed from the water she watched the Gaul leave the bed and come toward her. He knelt by the side of the tub, and in the exotic glow of the lamps his mesmeric green eyes ensnared.

  Slowly he dipped his hands into the water, his intense gaze never leaving hers. Despite her best intentions her fingers slipped upward to allow better access to her sensitized nipples. She squeezed hard, relishing the stab of painful pleasure that ricocheted straight to her womb, despite the echo of warning that pounded in her burning mind.

  He was the one who had to pleasure her. But still she couldn’t drag her hands from her body. Because the way he looked at her as she touched herself aroused her more than she had imagined possible.

  Finally he finished cleansing and the tips of his battle-scarred fingers trailed up her rib cage. Ribbons of fire ignited countless tiny flames under her flesh, and she relinquished her breasts, arching her back, inviting his touch.

  But he didn’t immediately cradle her breasts in his hands or lower his head and suckle her willing nipples. Instead he began to loosen the tangles teasing her hair, infinitely gentle, astonishingly patient. She curled her fingers over the sides of the tub to keep her balance, to keep herself from rubbing her engorged clit, but most of all to keep herself from winding her arms around his shoulders and melding her naked body against his.

  “Your hair is beautiful.” His husky voice invaded her blood, stoking the flames licking through her veins. “Like silk from the East.”

  “I kno
w nothing of silk from the East.” It wasn’t quite true. She had heard the exotic East produced breath-stealing luxuries, but hadn’t seen any herself. Until this moment such foreign decadence had never interested her. But now, obscurely, she wanted to know more. “What’s it like?”

  It had nothing to do with wanting to hear the Gaul speak again in that bone-tingling smoky whisper.

  His fingers tugged through an obstinate tangle and she sighed as corresponding tugs shivered over her skull and along her neck and spiraled through her painfully erect nipples. She was his enemy, his captive, and yet he took the time to arouse her as if they were besotted new lovers.

  Her eyelashes fluttered. Despite his tender touch she must never forget he had abducted her by force. That his compatriots had murdered her fellow Druids. That this Gaul deserved nothing more than to feel the thrust of her blade through his corrupt heart.

  Yet the thoughts were distant in her mind, as physical sensation drenched her weary senses.

  “Soft.” His fingers had reached her scalp. Jagged darts of pleasure tumbled through her brain and she tightened her grip on the edges of the tub before her bones melted and she slipped beneath the water in mindless delight. “Imagine strands of water sliding over your flesh without splintering into droplets.”

  A disbelieving smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Who would have thought this tough Gallic bastard could evoke such a tangible notion? “Beware your men never hear you utter such poetic beauty.”

  He gave a grunt that sounded like a suppressed laugh and raked her tangle-free hair back from her face, then twisted it into a single wet rope to snake over the edge of the tub. The tips of his fingers trailed from the nape of her neck across her naked shoulders, leaving chills of fire in his wake.

  “What else do you want to know?”

  She wanted to know when he was going to take her. When she could finally give in to the urge to hold him in her arms, explore his warrior-hard body and feel his cock thrust inside so she could come. So she could throw the final insult in the Morrigan’s face.

  Recalling the Morrigan, recalling the real reason Morwyn was allowing herself to enjoy this captivity, caused an icy chill to permeate her heated thoughts. For a moment she held her breath as confused fragments of desire and need and revenge tumbled through her mind.

  Having the Gaul made sense. But wanting to prolong this conversation, wanting to hear the husky note in his voice as he caressed her wet skin, didn’t make sense. They didn’t need to talk. Talking wouldn’t enrage her goddess.

  And yet she couldn’t find the strength to twist around. To shatter this strange, ethereal sensation of intimacy.

  It was an illusion. She knew that. But it was peaceful to enjoy this fleeting moment out of time, to push to the back of her mind the death and devastation she’d witnessed since the cursed Roman Legions had invaded her land.

  What else do I want to know?

  “Have you served in the East?”

  His fingers momentarily stilled, as if he hadn’t expected her to ask such a thing. She had no need to ask such a thing. Yet she wanted to know. Even if knowing made no difference to how this fragile alliance would end.

  Besides, she needed to earn his trust. That way he’d allow her more freedom when they reached Camulodunon. And pretending an interest in his life, encouraging him to talk, was one way of ensuing he lowered his innate suspicion.

  Even if my pretense is false.

  Without warning he began to massage her shoulders, thumbs and fingers kneading her knotted muscles, and waves of delicious pleasure radiated from wherever he touched. Again her eyelids flickered as bliss enveloped her battered body. If he continued so, she wouldn’t need his cock to finish. Gods, how good it felt to have a man’s hands on her once again, and her toes curled against the side of the tub as her neck dropped forward, allowing him the most vulnerable access.

  “I served in the East for a short time.” His warm breath grazed her shoulder. Deep in her mind a warning stirred at how unguarded she was. He could snap her neck with one swift movement and she’d be unable to defend herself. But why would he murder her now, when it was clear she would offer no resistance to his demands? And if brutality was his specialty, he would have raped her back in the forest.

  She was as safe here as she would be anywhere with him.

  “How long have you served your Roman masters?”

  His thumbs dug into a sore muscle and she groaned in response, unsure whether the unexpected pressure caused pleasure or pain. He wound her hair around one hand but didn’t jerk her head up as she expected. Instead he appeared satisfied to know she was utterly in his power.

  For now. But later, when he writhed in ecstasy as she rode him into oblivion, the power would be all hers.

  “A long time.” There was an edge to his voice, as if he no longer found her questions entertaining.

  “Yet you speak of them with contempt.” Again her eyelids flickered. Gods, it was hard to keep awake as the scented heat of the water and magical ministrations of the Gaul’s fingers relaxed her to such a degree she could scarcely summon the energy to think, never mind converse.

  This time he did pull her head up by her hair, but it wasn’t vicious. Just inexorable, letting her know he could. Letting her know she had no choice.

  A groan escaped as he forced her neck over the rim of the tub. His face was close to hers and she blinked, disoriented by his upside-down visage, and his other hand slid around her vulnerable throat, strong fingers closing over her erratic pulse, applying pressure, a heartbeat away from severing her thread to this life.

  The flickering glow from the lamps cast enticing shadows across his roughened jaw and she had the overwhelming urge to reach up, drag her nails across his face and pull him to her, so she could feel the abrasive texture of his day-old beard flay her tender flesh.

  “And you, Celt, speak without first weighing your words.” His thumb trailed slowly along the line of her jaw, back and forth, a lazy, seductive motion that sent tremors skittering along her taut skin without relaxing his death grip on her throat. “Haven’t you yet learned to hold your tongue when in the presence of your enemy?”

  “I’ve never before been captured by my enemy.” Her voice was breathless, her lungs depleted. Her throat ached and the tub dug into the back of her neck. But that all faded against the way his thumb continued to stroke her, almost as if he didn’t realize what he was doing, yet the careless caress stoked the dark eroticism bubbling deep in her blood.

  She would put up with a great deal more discomfort for the pleasure his touch evoked.

  And his thumb stilled. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip to stop herself from begging. She would never beg for his touch. But gods, how she wanted it, and how despicable that she craved him so.

  His gaze roved over her face before locking with hers. Even upside down his eyes enchanted. How easy it would be, looking into those mystical green depths, to forget who and what he was.

  “We could negotiate a truce.” His words sank into her, as dark and rich and forbidden as the most decadent of unknown Roman luxury imported from the exotic East. And then his meaning permeated her lust-dazed mind. Victory stabbed through the swirling flames of desire, melding and intensifying, and unbearable heat ignited low in her womb, fiery tendrils flickering around her sensitized core.

  Already he had grown to trust her enough to offer a truce. If she didn’t wish to travel to Camulodunon for her own reasons, how easy it would be to incapacitate him after they’d fucked, and make good her escape.

  “What do you have in mind?” It was a blatant invitation but she didn’t care. Every muscle, every nerve, every particle of her skin screamed for release. If he didn’t drag her from this water soon, if he didn’t toss her onto the bed, immobilize her with his hard body and take her with savage, frenzied thrusts, she’d have no choice but to crucify her pride and reverse the scenario.

  Chapter Seven

  Her skin was warm, wet and silky s
oft beneath his rough fingers. She didn’t trust him, and yet she offered the vulnerable column of her throat without resistance. For a fleeting moment he tightened his clasp on her and felt her pulse accelerate in anticipation or alarm, but there was no fear in her dark eyes as she gazed up at him. Only lust, desire and a clawing want that mirrored his own.

  Still gripping her hair so she couldn’t move should such a thought occur to her, he slowly slid his other hand from her throat across the enticing swell of her breast. She drew in a ragged breath but didn’t push him away. Water lapped over his hand, over her nipples, and he had the sudden vision of joining her in the tub, pulling her onto his lap and plunging his shaft deep into her welcoming cleft.

  Air hissed between his teeth. The tub was too small. He lowered his head so their breath mingled and slid his hand beneath her breast, cupping its slippery weight, pinching her erect nipple between thumb and forefinger, never taking his eyes from hers.

  If only he could trust her not to slit his throat while he slept, or poison him as they ate. But too much pride glittered in her eyes for her to ever truly embrace her perceived enemy. He’d have to settle for a more superficial truce.

  “When we stop for the night, we agree to forget our warring heritage.”

  Her lips parted, breath shortened, and she subtly angled her body so her luscious breast pressed more securely into the palm of his hand.

  “Can you make me forget?” Her arm emerged from the water and languid fingers trailed over his jaw. A featherlight touch yet edged with danger as her nails dug into his throat and dragged down to the neck of his tunic.

  He could make her forget. And maybe, for a few fleeting moments, she could make him forget, too.

  But it wasn’t his heritage he wanted or needed to suppress. Mindless oblivion beckoned and as much as the promise of sexual satisfaction enticed, the tempting notion of deadening his memories, no matter how temporarily, mocked him with contemptuous impossibility.