Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2)

by Christina Phillips

  “You don’t say much, do you?”

  Did she require an answer? After a moment when she continued to stare at him as if she did, indeed, require a response, he managed to locate his voice.

  “What would you have me say?”

  Amusement flashed over her face and shock speared through his chest. He had to be mistaken. Why would Morwyn be amused by this situation? He had expected anger that he’d taken advantage of her. Or perhaps denial that she’d enjoyed their coupling.

  Acidic words, maybe even her knuckles embedded into his face.

  Anything, in truth, but the extraordinary way she was currently behaving.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Her nails dug into the corded muscle of his lower thighs. “Perhaps how I was the best fuck you’ve had this moon? That would do for a start.”

  Since she was the first woman he’d had in countless months, that went without saying. Somehow he knew that answer wouldn’t suffice.

  “Why? Would you believe me?” And was he really conducting a conversation while still impaled within her welcoming body?

  It was surreal. Took him back to a time when life was for living, not merely surviving.

  A familiar ache wound its way through his chest, but for the first time tempered by—by what? He couldn’t fathom. Knew only that the ache was not as all-consuming. That he didn’t feel unclean and despicable the way he usually did after laying with a woman.

  “That,” Morwyn said, pulling him abruptly back to the present, “would depend upon how sincerely you said the words.”

  He shifted his weight and her legs slid from his back to thump onto the mattress. But still they remained joined.

  There was no time for this interlude. They had to get back in the saddle. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to sever this strange, tenuous connection. He’d enjoy this tranquil moment for a little longer, at least.

  “Morwyn.” Bracing his weight on one arm, he cradled her face with his free hand. Wasn’t sure why. It just felt right. “You’re the best fuck I’ve had for a long time.”

  The faintest trace of a smile lifted her lips. “Passably sincere. You’re forgiven.”

  “And what of me?” Why had he asked her that? Gawain thudded through his mind. Bren had no desire to be compared—and unfavorably—with her absent lover.

  Gods, let the Gawain of Morwyn’s dreams not be the man Bren had so violently crossed paths with.

  “You?” Morwyn’s eyebrows rose as if the question astonished her almost as much as it did him. Then her dark eyes glittered, as if with suppressed mirth. But that couldn’t be so . . . “Let me think.” She glanced at the ceiling as if contemplating the matter, and a thread of disbelief coiled in his belly as he finally understood.

  She was flirting with him. Again. And again, it had taken him too long to recognize. Was he really so disconnected from normalcy?

  Once again she dug her nails into his flesh, as if aware his attention had momentarily scattered. “Your performance,” she said, as if addressing a slave who had been ordered to entertain her, “was . . . passably adequate.”

  Their eyes clashed, and an unfamiliar congestion curdled deep within his chest. It took a moment to realize the sensation was that of suppressed laughter.

  His lips twitched, but the laughter remained buried within the cavern of his withered soul. “Merely adequate?”

  “Doubtless you’ll improve with practice.”

  The laugh caught him unawares and echoed around the room. A strange, unfamiliar sound. Morwyn smirked up at him, clearly well satisfied by his response.

  He twisted her hair around his fingers and gently tugged. Just enough to make her wince.

  “And do I need plenty of practice?” An inane question that meant nothing. He was wasting time, was further delaying his arrival in Camulodunon. But still he waited for her reply.

  The tip of her tongue teased the seam of her lips in a slow, sensual caress. The need to remain in bed with her, to forget about his duty to king and country, thudded in his brain with treacherous insistence.

  “Yes.” Her husky voice curled around his senses. “And next time you can start by stripping for my pleasure.”

  He kissed her, harsh and swift, before pushing himself upright and out of her. Before he succumbed to his desires and took her again, and risked Roman investigation into the details of his delayed arrival when he finally arrived in Camulodunon.

  “Next time,” he said as he watched the annoyed frown flicker over her face, “you will strip for my pleasure, Morwyn.” Because there was no way he’d ever strip naked before her. Not unless they were both blinded by the night, and perhaps . . . not even then.

  Chapter Twelve

  Morwyn stifled a groan as the Gaul once again hauled her up onto the saddle. While her bruised muscles from the brief and humiliating battle in the forest were now healing, other muscles twinged in protest.

  She smothered a smile as she attempted to find a more comfortable position. She’d been so long without a man her body was as sore and pussy as tender as if this morn had been her first time.

  “Are you ready?” There was a thread of concern in his voice, despite the gruff tone. She wondered if he even realized such emotion had shown through.

  “I’d much rather spend the day in more leisurely pursuits.” She tossed him a glance over her shoulder. And caught an odd expression on his face before it was instantly masked by his usual implacability. Truly, this Gaul was an enigma. “But since you’ve made it very clear that isn’t an option, I’m not sure why you asked the question.”

  His incredible green eyes flickered as if he was unable to completely conceal his emotions from her after all. It was also obvious he had no idea of such vulnerability in his tough mercenary shell.

  She waited while he processed her comment. While he struggled to ascertain whether she was being serious or, yet again, was merely playing with him.

  Why she kept succumbing to the urge to flirt with him was something she couldn’t quite understand. But since it passed the time, why shouldn’t she?

  It didn’t mean she was beginning to like him. But his inadequate social skills intrigued her. It was . . . amusing to watch him attempt to decipher the meaning behind her remarks.

  “It’s not an option because I have time constraints.” His jaw tensed for a moment, clearly unsure whether to continue. “I meant—are you all right?”

  Her nipple still tingled from where he’d suckled her earlier. Her thighs ached and her pussy was deliciously sensitive. She felt thoroughly fucked and thoroughly satisfied, and the longer she gazed into his hypnotic eyes, the more she wanted to drag him behind a convenient bush and pin him to the ground.

  “I’d prefer to have bathed this morning.” And while she hoped he thought she referred to a river or spring, in truth she wouldn’t have complained if he’d procured her another Roman tub. Instead, it had been another bucket. Scarcely satisfactory.

  In more ways than the obvious. Since once again, the Gaul hadn’t removed his tunic. Tonight, she intended that would be rectified.

  “Tonight.” He urged the horse forward onto the Roman road and she gripped the padded edge of the saddle in readiness. But he didn’t dig his spurs in right away. “You can experience the full Roman bathing ritual.”

  An illicit spark of excitement flared deep in her chest. She hoped it hadn’t shown on her face because she’d rather tear out her tongue than admit such foreign decadence appealed.

  “If you insist on inflicting such torture, then I have no choice.”

  “And if I believed such ritual would be so torturous, I wouldn’t inflict it upon you.”

  She gave a disdainful sniff and cursed their awkward position. Her neck had started to ache. She’d have to break eye contact soon.

  “You have no problem inflicting any number of tortures upon me.” She refrained from rubbing the straining tendons in her neck. She didn’t want any movement to distract him from this conversation.

  His li
p twitched in a way that was becoming familiar. Fascinated at how his hard face softened, she stared at him, wondering why he found it so difficult to laugh. As if he considered it a weakness. “How many days until we reach Camulodunon?” How many nights do we have before I leave you in Camulodunon?

  The relaxing of his features might have been a fantasy, so instantly did the usual harsh, uncompromising visage return.

  “We arrive in Camulodunon later this day.” And then he dug his spurs in.

  Morwyn stared straight ahead, unseeing, blood heating her cheeks. He hadn’t noticed her disappointment. Of that she was convinced.

  But why was she disappointed? Her objective had always been to reach Camulodunon and find Carys. She wanted to see Carys again. Wanted to leave the Gaul. To show him she was no slave to be hauled around the country at his slightest whim.

  Except she hadn’t expected the opportunity to leave him would be quite so soon.

  But what difference would another day make? She’d achieved her goal of multiple orgasms with the enemy. The Morrigan would surely be screeching at her sacred crossroad, cursing Morwyn for her blasphemy. She didn’t need any more time with the Gaul.

  And yet the sordid truth echoed in her mind. She wanted to have him again.

  ***

  The sun was directly overhead when they finally reached Camulodunon. It was clearly a popular destination for merchants and traders, with travelers on foot and horseback both entering and leaving the shockingly large settlement. An arch proclaimed entrance to the Roman town but from this distance Morwyn couldn’t see the point of it. After all, there were no ramparts protecting the inhabitants from attack necessitating such purpose-built entry.

  As they approached the massive two portal arches, she realized it had obviously been constructed to commemorate the Roman conquest, and the Gaul slowed to a sedate walk.

  Despite not wanting to be affected by anything that declared victory so blatantly, she couldn’t help the thread of awe that snaked through her. It was craftsmanship such as she’d never seen before. Certainly there was nothing to compare in Cymru, where the Romans had ravished her land in order to construct their hated fortifications.

  “Impressed?” The Gaul’s breath brushed against her ear. He didn’t sound either impressed or repelled. To her disbelief arousal shivered through her at the sound of his voice. It was the first time he’d spoken since they’d left this morn.

  But then, she hadn’t attempted to engage him in conversation. She’d been too distracted by her own tangled thoughts to risk talking. In case she said something that inadvertently gave away how much she still wanted him.

  She concentrated on the freestanding arch before them. It was flanked by narrow foot passages, and the whole was set between projecting quadrant-shaped guard chambers. They, at least, were familiar. As were the foreign brick-and-mortar buildings beyond it.

  A fortification. And yet, somehow, quite different from those she’d seen in Cymru.

  Impressed? Certainly, if she had to be brutally honest, the architecture itself was impressive. But that was entirely different.

  “By coarse Roman arrogance?” She sniffed and frowned as she caught sight of an extensive Latin inscription carved onto the stone arch. Only the last few words penetrated her outraged mind.

  “. . . brought the barbarian peoples across the Ocean under the authority of the Roman people.”

  The Romans had the nerve to call them barbarians?

  Perhaps, in the past, she’d been guilty of considering the Britons as borderline barbarians. But compared to their common enemy, such distinctions were nothing. While they remained under the yoke of Rome, she was prepared to consider Britain an extension of Cymru.

  And the only barbarians in the land were those who willingly served the depraved Roman Emperor.

  Such as the Gaul, whose thighs cradled hers and whose arms grazed her waist. The man who had rescued her from his despicable countrymen in the forest, who took her insults without physical retaliation. The man who both fascinated and infuriated her in ways she’d never before imagined.

  Because she had never before been a captive of the enemy. Or been victim to such unquenchable lust whenever she so much as thought of a man.

  She loathed all Romans on principle and their spineless mercenaries by extension. Yet the longer she remained in this Gaul’s company, the harder it was to remember all the reasons why she couldn’t allow her defenses to crumble.

  Irritated, she deliberately looked over her shoulder at the receding triumphal arch. That was the reason. If she forgot, for even one moment, who he was, she risked losing her identity and pride. As Britain had lost hers.

  “Is this a fortification or settlement?” She shot the Gaul a dark glance, blaming him entirely for her ignorance. The buildings were regimented, nothing like the sprawling hill forts she was used to, but something was oddly amiss.

  He didn’t return her accusatory glare. “They didn’t need a military base here. They needed a colonia.” For a moment she imagined she saw contempt gleam in his mesmeric green eyes, but surely that was only a projection of her own affront?

  “A colonia?” She’d heard Camulodunon had been secured by the Romans and turned into a prosperous town, but her notion of what exactly comprised a Roman town was hazy. Somehow she’d imagined a larger version of the settlements that sprung up around the fortifications in Cymru.

  But this town wasn’t a ramshackle combination of tents and huts and timber. It had been built with purpose in the famed Roman design.

  He dismounted and helped her to the ground. His hand lingered longer than necessary at her waist before he released her. “The barracks were converted into houses for veterans. They call this their capital city of Britannia.”

  Morwyn narrowed her eyes as she surveyed the bustling market with its noisy livestock, gaudy trinkets and strange exotic imports. Britons and Romans mingled freely, and the scents of animals, sweat and indecipherable spices invaded her senses.

  Camulodunon. Ancient tribal settlement of the disposed Caratacus who now defied the might of the Eagle in the far west, among the mountains and forests of her beloved Cymru.

  She followed him without comment as they skirted the market and piles of steaming dung and headed down a side road. No dusty trails for the Romans. Even in their towns they couldn’t abandon their love of road-building.

  They came to an inn, and as the Gaul negotiated room and horse hire, Morwyn glanced at the other buildings. They appeared to sell everything from food to sex.

  Wherever Carys was, it wasn’t here. Her Roman would have installed her in far statelier surroundings, as befit her status. But with such a large town to search, where was she to begin?

  “The innkeeper will show you to our room.” The Gaul was staring at her and she blinked back her focus, hoping he hadn’t guessed the direction of her thoughts. “You can eat in there, away from prying eyes.”

  She didn’t care about prying eyes. Although, curse the gods, did her insides have to tighten with anticipation at the thought of being alone with the Gaul again so soon?

  “Very well.” Why deny she was hungry, and not just for food? But she certainly wasn’t going to let him know that, not yet. Not until they shut the door on the rest of the world.

  After all, there was plenty of time to find Carys. Afterward.

  She stepped toward the innkeeper. The Gaul didn’t move.

  “I’ll meet you back here later.”

  She froze and turned to look at him. “You’re not coming with me?”

  “I’ve business to conduct.” His gaze scalded her. A wordless promise of what that night would bring.

  Except she wouldn’t be there that night.

  Her heart thudded against her ribs, an oddly slow, echoing beat, as if it were disconnected from the rest of her body. She knew she had to tear her eyes from him, knew she had to make a careless response. Knew she had to alleviate any lingering suspicion he might harbor that she would escape as so
on as he turned his back.

  But she couldn’t. Because a despicable, treacherous slither of her soul didn’t want to escape. Not yet. She wanted another night with him. Just one more night. That was all. And then she could walk out of his life without a backward glance, without a second’s hesitation.

  Without a breath of regret.

  “Can’t it wait until the morn?” Curse her tongue, had she truly said that aloud? In an effort to appear nonchalant she shrugged and pretended not to notice the dagger-sharp interest that flared in his eyes. “You need to eat too, after all.”

  “I’ll return as soon as I can.” He paused, as if debating whether to continue. “We leave for Cymru at daybreak.”

  Subconsciously she acknowledged his use of the term Cymru rather than the Roman Cambria. But mainly she acknowledged that if she didn’t take this chance to escape, she wouldn’t receive a second. His military business was obviously fleeting, and would be completed this day.

  She had no choice. It was now. Or never.

  “Good.” Her smile felt brittle, unconvincing, and so she looked away from him toward the inn. “This heathen town sickens me.”

  Despite her best intentions she glanced back at him and caught the familiar tug of his lips, as if he fought against a smile. Why would he smile at her deliberate insult?

  He closed the distance between them and the breath tightened in her chest, constricting and exhilarating. Gods, it was as well they would spend no more time together if every time he drew near, her body betrayed her so blatantly.

  “Here.” His voice was husky and for one insane moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Here, in public. And she wanted him to because then, in her mind, she could pretend it was a farewell.

  Instead he pulled her medicine bag from his pack and handed it to her. For a moment she stated at it, uncomprehending. He’d taken it from her because he didn’t trust her not to poison him. Did this gesture mean that now he did trust her?

  He let out an impatient breath as if her non-reaction irritated. “You need this, Morwyn. For your womanly requirements.”