For some reason he hadn’t anticipated how vitriolic her response would be if he hadn’t released her before she stirred. But what had really pissed him off was the knowledge she was entitled to her anger. That he had no right to chain her like a slave. That no matter how many excuses he gave himself for his actions, not one justified treating her as a conquered spoil of war.
Her dark eyes narrowed and he waited for her condemnation. She’d obviously been waiting for this moment all day. If luck was with him, she’d tell him what she thought of him and then be prepared to move on.
But since he and luck had only the most fleeting of acquaintance, he wasn’t holding his breath.
“And what,” she said in a regal voice, never taking her gaze from his, “do the Romans call these?” She jabbed her finger at the various vegetables that had been served up with the more traditional British stew.
He stared at her. She wanted to know about the food on her plate? Why wasn’t she spitting venom at him for last night? It had darkened her features. Glittered in her eyes. Since when had Morwyn ever held her tongue for fear of angering him?
Something foul twisted through his guts. Was that the answer? That she now feared him? That she would join the others who cowed in terror before him? Had he ensured her continued company only to taint it irretrievably?
She leaned across the table. Her attitude wasn’t one of servility. What the fuck was going on?
“Should I call the serving wench back?” Her tone was deceptively innocent. “Perhaps she can list the ingredients for us.”
“Possibly.” His tone was guarded. It was rare he found himself in a situation where he wasn’t in absolute command. But in this moment he floundered. He had no idea what Morwyn was talking about.
She pursed her lips in evident displeasure. “I shouldn’t be surprised if she’d be willing to show you all her ingredients personally.”
And now she’d lost him completely. He hoped his confusion didn’t show. Until now he’d taken for granted his ability to accurately read a situation. Gods, it was the reason he was still alive. The reason why he’d escaped being murdered a dozen times during the last three years.
Even though he enjoyed the conversations with Morwyn he knew how much she resented him, how she considered him her enemy. How she would sooner drive a dagger through his heart than offer him a modicum of trust.
That was why he didn’t allow her to keep her embroidered bag. He had adequate knowledge of healing herbs and potions, as any warrior worth his salt did, but Morwyn’s supplies surpassed the norm. He was under no illusion she would poison him within an instant were she given the opportunity.
And now she should be condemning him for chaining her. It was the logical continuation of their previous conversation. He’d known its inevitability as they bartered words on why he’d rescued her from Trogus, why he’d not allowed her to bathe in the river.
Yet she spoke of food. Of the serving wench. And for the life of him he couldn’t make any connection.
“I’ve no desire to examine her”—he hesitated for a moment—“ingredients.” He had the distinct impression Morwyn was referring to the serving girl’s half-naked breasts. Why? Was she attempting to divert his interest from her to another? Did she still think he’d force her against her will, despite how last night he’d ensured not so much as his foot intruded on her privacy?
Despite how he’d lain awake for hours battling an agonizing erection and sweat-drenched fantasies?
“Not to your taste?” She raised her eyebrows and began to eat the stew.
At least that was a straightforward question. “No.”
She chewed and swallowed, lips together, every action screaming of her high birth. Who was she, really?
“I suppose you prefer a demure little mouse who trembles at the thought of crossing her master.”
An odd notion occurred to him. Was she flirting? It had been so long since he’d bothered to notice such interplay between the sexes it was hard to recall the rules of engagement. But once, long ago, he’d enjoyed the pastime.
In another life.
“A mouse wouldn’t last long with me.” His voice was gruff and he scowled at his stew, unable to believe she really was flirting with him, the man she so blatantly despised. But if not, then what?
“Not a mouse, then.” She sniffed the wine and took a minute sip. “But clearly your preference is for a woman who defers to you in every matter. One who craves your protection and swoons if you so much as raise your voice to her.”
A dull ache wrapped around his heart. Squeezed like a vise. Bled him dry and tossed the useless husk aside.
Eryn, his first love, tiny and fragile, had looked to him in every matter. But she had been no timid mouse. And he would have carved out his heart before hurting her with word or deed.
Eryn. Her name whispered through his mind and tangled in his memories. As a boy he adored her; as a youth he desired her. And as a man he’d failed her.
“In that case I’ll find myself a Roman woman.”
***
Morwyn shot him a sharp glance but he was concentrating on devouring his food. She frowned, took another mouthful and tried to work out why he’d suddenly retreated.
She’d enjoyed baiting him. To see him at a loss for words was highly entertaining. Especially when it was obvious he struggled to comprehend whether she was being serious or jesting. Had he never flirted? Or was he simply incapable of it?
They ate in silence for a few moments but tension skittered through her blood and scraped along her nerves. How could he just sit there, ignoring her? He’d taken her from Cymru for his own purposes and then not bothered to follow through.
And now he wasn’t even talking to her. She shifted on the hard seat and flung him another glance. He wasn’t even looking at her. So why did he insist she accompany him to Camulodunon?
She drained the wine, and the noise from the tavern echoed through her mind. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant but she had no intention of passing out as she had last night. What she needed was fresh water to clear her head, but it appeared such a basic need was lacking.
Irritation mounted. When he’d disarmed her in the forest his arousal had been evident. He’d even told that filthy dog who’d been intent on rape that he was taking her to warm his bed at nights. And when she bathed before him, he’d been riveted.
So why did he ignore her? Why didn’t he take her last night?
Since the age of fourteen, almost half her lifetime ago, only one male had ever spurned her. But Aeron, the High Druid and ultimate betrayer of their people, had never shown any interest in her sexually.
On the other hand this infuriating Gaul had. And now that she was in his power he chose to slight her.
She speared a foreign vegetable and chewed it viciously, as equally savage thoughts pounded through her mind. A distasteful certainty coalesced and no matter how she tried to dismiss the notion it gained momentum and flooded her injured psyche.
He wanted her. And resented the fact. Because she was nothing like the women he usually lusted after. Meek, subservient.
Roman.
The thought of being compared with a Roman woman and found wanting was more than she could stomach. She pushed her plate aside, pride seething. If that was the type of female he preferred, then she had no use for him, in or out of bed.
For a moment the thought hovered, jangling her nerves. And then she realized the incongruity of her thought and heat scalded her cheeks.
She had no use for him out of bed. The only reason she willingly stayed with him was because he gave her safe passage to Carys. And fucking him was only a pleasant side benefit. A way to get back at the Morrigan.
Except we have yet to fuck.
Curse the gods, why did she care so much? She had been without sex for many moons. To insult her goddess by embracing her enemy would be enjoyable but if it didn’t happen, it made no difference.
Against her better judgment she flicked him another gl
ance. He was watching her, his face expressionless, as if anticipating her making a bid for freedom.
Oh, she would make a bid for freedom. When the time was right. And if he continued to treat her as an undesirable encumbrance, she’d slash his throat before she left too.
She ignored the fact she had no dagger. Ignored the real possibility he would leave her chained the entire time they were in Camulodunon. She’d find a way to get back at him because how dared he fight his desire for her? How dared he despise the fact he lusted after her?
How dare he deny me satisfaction?
***
Morwyn turned her back on him in bed, her body rigid with affront at his continued distance. He hadn’t even bothered procuring her a bath. Instead they had washed in a bucket of lukewarm water and even if he had allowed her to go first, she still felt ill-cleansed.
As he extinguished the last lamp and the room plunged into darkness she allowed her muscles to slowly relax. But even that was an effort because every nerve stretched in awareness at his close proximity. The heat emanating from his body.
The chill of the space between them.
No shackle imprisoned her ankle.
She clenched her hands. Forced her breath between her teeth. This journey was testing her sanity to its outer limits. While on Mon, she’d been approached on several occasions by men wanting more than friendship. But, despite her body’s need, she’d never been tempted to take them up on their offers.
Her need to scorn the Morrigan had been greater.
But now, lying in bed in the dark, all she could think of was the Gaul. How he would feel. How he would taste. And the most despicable thing of all was she knew, deep inside, that wanting him had nothing to do with wanting to abuse her goddess’ divine gifts.
***
She was back in the Morrigan’s sacred grove on the Isle of Mon. The grass was sharp green, the sky vivid blue, every color so vibrant her eyes ached. Somewhere in the back of her mind, beyond the reach of consciousness, she knew this wasn’t real. Knew it was just another dream. But when Gawain came to her and took her hands, relief, woven through with remorse, gripped her heart.
“I’ll find the Briton king, Morwyn. And fight for our freedom the way we should have fought, before Aeron created his cursed spiral. Before he concealed us from the Romans.” The last words vibrated with fury. With loathing at how the Druids had been prevented from protecting their people.
No dream. This was a memory. The last time she’d seen Gawain alive before he’d left the Isle to seek out Caratacus.
“Let me come with you.” The words spilled from her lips even though she knew his answer, as if this memory demanded to be replayed over and over, an endless loop, despite her knowledge of how it would all end.
His fingers tightened around hers. She could feel their strength as though he truly stood before her and held her hands, but still ethereal wisps of precognition fluttered in her mind. Distorting the moment. Confusing her ability to distinguish between reality and reminiscence.
“No.” He released her and stood looking down at her, as if committing her to memory. “I need to go alone.” He hesitated for a moment clearly debating his next words. “I need to get away from you.”
She watched him turn and walk away, proud and alone, and her heart ached. No matter how she longed to leave this Isle and join the rebels, she couldn’t go with Gawain. He deserved, at least, the right to leave on his own terms.
The sky darkened; the air chilled. Shivers raced over her arms as shadows lengthened and the trees thickened, becoming dense and impenetrable. Unformed terror gripped her, twisted her guts, and sent her stumbling backward.
Run. Desperately she tried to turn, to flee, but her limbs were paralyzed, rooting her to the spot. She could do nothing but watch as the clouds rolled across the threatening sky, as thunder rumbled ominously in the distance and as a formidable mountain rose from the blackened trees.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, panicked and painful. A terrible foreboding snaked through her blood, formless yet tangible. Unknown yet terrifyingly familiar. As if she had witnessed what was to occur countless times in the past, and would continue to witness forever into eternity.
Water splashed her feet and she leaped back, breaking the paralysis, and looked down. A raging river slashed across the land, dividing her from the mountain; a river of murderous intent, tainted with scarlet.
Lungs contracted, throat closed. She jerked her gaze up and stared at the massive stone ramparts on the far mountain. Had she been here before? Was this real, or a dream? A memory her waking self had forgotten?
Or a vision of what was to come?
War cries slithered into her consciousness and her perspective instantly altered. Now she was on the mountain, behind the ramparts, looking down as the hated enemy forded the deadly river. Arrows arched across the sky, an endless torrent, but it meant nothing. Would get them nowhere. She didn’t know how or why the certainty gripped her in a remorseless vise. Only that it did. Only that she needed to escape, that she needed to find someone. That she needed to warn the others.
She pushed her way through faceless warriors as panic mounted and sweat drenched her clammy skin. Up ahead a familiar figure came into view and relief swamped her, momentarily deadening her limbs and causing her mind to spin.
“Gawain.”
He didn’t hear her and continued issuing orders to another. She stumbled over fallen bodies—where had all the dead come from?—and pushed others from her path. She had to reach Gawain. Had to warn him.
But no matter how fast she ran, she could get no closer to him. Always he was beyond her grasp, beyond her vocal range. She watched him briefly embrace another man before turning his back, a show of utmost trust, and fathomless fear coiled around her throat.
The faceless warrior drew his dagger and it glinted like sunlight caught in a waterfall, before he raised his arm and plunged the deadly blade into Gawain’s back.
Chapter Ten
Strong arms enfolded her, and held her securely against an unyielding expanse of masculine chest. Her heart thundered against her ribs, crushed her lungs, caused air to gasp from parted lips.
A dream. Just a dream. Her panicked mind repeated the mantra as Gawain fell to his knees, as his blood pooled on the ground, as his assailant vanished into the roaring throng of disoriented warriors.
And yet, as always, conviction seared her soul that this was more than a figment of her imagination. More than a random, repetitive dream. Gawain was dead, murdered by one he trusted. Murdered by one of their own, even as the enemy advanced.
A dry sob scraped her throat, and instinctively she clutched at the muscled arm that encircled her waist. “Gawain.” The whisper rasped into the silence of the retreating nightmare, the darkness of the endless night. But the solid body shielding her back didn’t dissolve into the fevered recesses of her mind.
Heated breath fanned across her nape, causing shivers to race over her vulnerable flesh.
“You’re safe.” The low voice rumbled against her ear, deep and decadent. “I’ve got you, Morwyn.”
The lingering terror faded as awareness trickled through her brain. The Gaul held her in an intimate embrace, his hard body meshed to hers, his erection pressed securely against the small of her back.
Her breath stumbled, heart tripped and then thudded with painful intensity. Without conscious thought her fingers fanned across his forearm, and tremors of delight rippled through her blood at the abrasive texture of his skin and hair against her palm.
Firm lips drifted across the hollow where neck curved into shoulder. “You’re safe,” he repeated, voice husky. His arm tightened almost imperceptibly around her. “Don’t be afraid.”
Skin tingled beneath his questing lips. But he explored no further, for her gown obstructed his progress and he made no move to rip it from her body, to allow him unfettered access.
But still he held her. Hard against soft. Coils of desire knotted low in her
belly, and sent glowing tendrils spiking through her trembling sheath. Even through his tunic and her gown his cock burned her flesh, tantalizing her with promises of how thoroughly he could satisfy the clawing frustration shredding her reason.
Under pretext of stretching, she stealthily molded her bottom more firmly against his thigh, trapping his cock more securely, and threaded her fingers through his. Hot breath gusted across her shoulder, teeth grazed her sensitized flesh, but still he didn’t act on the lust pounding between them.
His face was still buried against her shoulder and she rolled her head back, and nestled her cheek against his cropped hair. It prickled, extraordinary, erotic, like nothing she had ever experienced before, and another involuntary shudder ripped through her body.
Fingers entwined, she dragged his hand up from her waist. When she paused he continued the momentum and cradled her breast, scorching her flesh as if no fabric separated their contact.
With a harsh gasp her hand convulsed around his. She needed more than a gentle touch, more than a fleeting caress. Liquid fire scalded her veins and pooled between her thighs. Heart thundered in her chest and echoed in her ears and she rolled over, facing him.
The room was pitch-black and she could see nothing. He held her in one arm, firm and unyielding, his hot breath fanned her face, and the hard length of his hair-roughened legs trapped hers.
Words tumbled in her mind, incoherent, bereft of pride. She clamped her lips together, and bit down on her tongue. She wanted him. Needed him. But gods, she wouldn’t beg him.
Instead she speared her fingers through his hair and darts of shocked pleasure radiated from her fingertips and along her arm, and splintered across her shoulder. There was no length to grasp, and, far from disappointing, it was exotic. Intoxicating. As arousing as the uncompromisingly male scent of woods and foreign soap and faintest hint of horse that emanated from his heated flesh.
She dug her nails into his scalp, scraped them along his skull and across the nape of his neck. He arched into her, cock rigid and demanding against her belly, and with a rough movement pulled her gown up to her waist.
Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2) Page 8