She dragged her gaze from the bag to stare into his face. He was frowning and looked harsh, uncompromising, as if the slightest wrong word from her would cause him to cut her throat.
Slowly she held out her hand and he dropped the embroidered loop over her palm. He considered her his captive. Had tethered her like a slave. And yet he was returning fundamental power to her, by giving her the means to control her own body and destiny.
Slaves had no such rights. And she knew, from observation and rumor, that Roman men had long ago stripped their women of all primal feminine knowledge—if, indeed, they had ever possessed it.
Her Gaul worked for the enemy. But he hadn’t embraced all of their twisted culture. An uncomfortable obstruction closed her throat, as if ancient grief choked her and she couldn’t think why his gesture touched her so profoundly.
After all, she didn’t need the contents of her bag. Carys could give her what she required in order to cleanse her womb of her Gaul’s seed.
“Thank you.” Her voice was as husky as his. His green eyes entranced, as they had the first time she’d seen him. Somehow she knew that, no matter how many summers or winters she saw, she would never forget the hypnotic shade of his eyes.
His stone-carved expression softened by an almost infinitesimal degree. So slight she wondered if anyone else could even notice.
“This doesn’t mean I trust you not to attempt to poison my food.” His voice was low, for her ears only, and again the corner of his mouth quirked as if attempting to smile.
She forced her lips to curve. It was far harder than it should have been. “Oh, there’s no fear of that, Gaul. We’re still days from Cymru. I’ve no desire to be stranded so far from home.”
This time, for one brief breath-stealing moment, he flashed her a true smile, and again she was staggered by how much younger, how much less battle weary, he looked.
She doubted he was any older than her. And somehow, inexplicably, that realization caused the dull knot in the center of her chest to tighten.
“Then I’m safe for another few days.” He turned to leave, then suddenly faced her once again and cradled her jaw in a fleeting, tender gesture before swinging on his heel.
A ragged gasp tore from her lips and she hugged her waist as she watched her Gaul disappear around the corner.
The thought lingered, probed deep into her mind and worried around the edges of her consciousness.
Her Gaul.
A shiver trickled along her spine and caused the hairs on her arms to rise in disbelief. Since when had she started to think of him as her Gaul?
Chapter Thirteen
Morwyn opened the door of the bedroom and glanced along the deserted hallway. She’d half wondered whether the innkeeper had been instructed to lock her up, but obviously not. Perhaps, then, he’d been ordered not to allow her to leave the inn on her own?
She would soon find out.
Heart thudding, although she wasn’t sure whether through anticipation at the prospect of escape or regret at betraying the Gaul’s trust, she slung her medicine bag over one shoulder and pack over the other and left the inn without being accosted.
And how absurd to feel she was betraying his trust. He had abducted her. He had no right to keep her against her will, and she had every right to walk out on him at the first opportunity.
Her fingers strayed to her bag. Somehow, the simple fact he’d given it back to her . . . changed things. She couldn’t quite work out why, just that she no longer felt entirely justified at deserting him.
She smothered a groan at her jumbled thoughts and glanced over her shoulder. I’m not deserting him. The sooner she found Carys and they formulated plans to return to Cymru and join the rebellion, the sooner this uncomfortable sensation of loss would pass.
But she couldn’t entirely ignore the realization that she would have felt so much better if the Gaul had told the innkeeper to keep her a prisoner. If, instead of simply walking out of the inn, she’d needed to use subterfuge and cunning.
With a deep breath she straightened her shoulders, tilted her jaw and marched toward the market. She’d take a quick look around the town first, take stock of the populace, before deciding whom to approach with her inquiry.
Carys was a distinctive-looking woman. Morwyn didn’t have any doubt she’d soon find someone who could direct her to her friend’s whereabouts.
***
Morwyn stared up at the monstrous temple that dominated this entire sector of the town. It sat on a podium, twenty sweeping steps above where she stood, a heathen display of columns and arches and vulgar statuary.
She expelled a shaky breath and wiped her hand across her sweaty brow. She’d been wandering around the town for too long already, and was no closer to deciding whom she could approach for information.
Her idea of asking a Celtic elder had come to nothing, since she hadn’t found any. Were they all in hiding from the conquerors? Or had they been slaughtered?
A group of Roman men, dressed in long white togas, strolled past. Would they know of Carys? Her lover had been a centurion, but rumor insisted he’d been promoted to the senatorial ranks.
She didn’t fully understand the complexities of the Roman military, but did know her friend’s lover possessed power. It was very likely these men would know his name. But even if she could bring herself to speak to them, she was under no illusion as to how she’d be treated.
Gods. Why had she imagined it would be a simple task to track Carys down? In the forest she’d thought Camulodunon would be just a slightly larger version of the settlements she was used to. A place where, with her connections, anyone could be found. But she was no longer in Cymru where her status ensured her questions would be answered with respect.
And this was getting her nowhere. She’d go back to the second, far larger, marketplace she’d found, the one next to this offensive temple, and make discreet inquiries of the stallholders. She hadn’t spoken to any of them before because they were all dressed as Romans, but now that she thought about it, how likely was it that they were?
Perhaps they merely dressed that way, in order not to draw attention to themselves. And she supposed she could understand that. Since leaving the tavern she’d been subject to countless sideway glances. Even a few lecherous gropes from lewd-mouthed bastards that she’d swiftly taken care of.
A pity she didn’t still have her dagger. What would her Gaul do with her dagger now she had left him? Sell it? Or would he keep it as a memento of their fleeting night together?
“Mistress Morwyn?”
The breathy whisper penetrated her mind, the words so utterly unexpected that for a moment she remained frozen to the spot. Who would address her in such a manner so far from home?
“Is—is that you, mistress?” Now the voice quavered, as if afraid it had made a fatal error.
Slowly she turned. A dark-haired Celtic girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen summers, gazed at her with a tentative smile. A smile that inexplicably wavered, only to be replaced by clear horror.
Morwyn ignored the urge to step back, because despite the girl’s strange behavior there was something vaguely familiar about her. “Yes, I’m Morwyn.” She smiled in an attempt to alleviate the girl’s distress. “You know me?”
The girl swallowed and visibly attempted to collect her scattered senses. “Yes, mistress. From Cymru. You’re the chosen acolyte of the Morrigan herself.”
Morwyn’s smile began to ache. “Yes.” But no longer. “What’s your name? What are you doing here?” And more important, did she know of Carys’ whereabouts?
“I’m Branwen.” She blinked a couple of times, as if trying to refocus. Gods, what was the matter with the girl? “I live here with my grandfather and the Lady Carys.”
“Carys?” Morwyn gripped Branwen’s shoulders, excitement pumping through her blood. “You must take me to her instantly, Branwen. Can you do that?”
Branwen gave her an odd look, as if she couldn’t understand her urgency. “But
of course, mistress. That’s why I spoke to you. Carys is just back there—in the forum.”
***
Bren waited with mounting impatience in the antechamber of the basilica. The building, constructed under the pretext of allowing the local tribal aristocracies to be responsible for their own administration and decision-making, in reality was little more than a base for the military stronghold.
He ignored the Celtic civilians who drifted through the chamber. The traitors who embraced the enemy way of life and coveted both prestige and social advancement through Roman bureaucracy. While the people they allegedly served choked on the yoke of enslavement.
When freedom swept the land, their collusion would not go unpunished.
A minor official strutted across the mosaic floor and looked at Bren as if he were a cockroach. “The Tribunus Laticlavius will see you now.” He jerked his head to indicate where Bren should go.
Without deigning to respond, Bren approached the half-opened door. Tribunus Laticlavius. A derisory laugh rattled inside his brain. The Romans set such stock by their victories and triumphs and yet they thought nothing of appointing a raw boy, who knew nothing of the bloody reality of war, into a position of such potential power.
Based solely on his family connections and blood.
The Roman, dressed in a white tunic with a wide purple stripe to denote his senatorial rank, had his back to Bren. Hands braced on the edge of his desk, he was apparently studying detailed cartographies.
“Sir.” It wasn’t said from respect. Only to inform the Roman he was no longer alone in the room. The Tribunus straightened, rolled up his maps and turned.
Bren scarcely managed to keep his expression blank as shock punched him in the gut. This was no green boy, but a full-grown man. Warrior hard, horrifically battle scarred, and with piercing blue eyes that caused eerie shivers of recognition to scuttle along his spine.
Taut silence screeched between them, as if the Roman recognized him too.
But how? From where? Bren couldn’t place him. Didn’t even recognize the face, and those injuries weren’t the kind a man would forget, no matter how much he wanted to.
“Dunmacos,” the Roman said.
And in that moment, he knew.
Three years ago, within weeks of assuming this cursed identity, Bren had been assigned to a Legion in Gaul. Still reeling from the orgy of slaughter and the quagmire of blood that he’d so recently escaped, it had been a bitter release to use Dunmacos’ chilling reputation as an outlet for his rage. For months he’d reacted with crippling ferocity to the slightest insult, the merest hint of disrespect among the other auxiliaries. Until there wasn’t the faintest doubt in even the most suspicious mind that he was who he claimed to be.
And this Roman, Tiberius Valerius Maximus, had been a centurion.
But his face hadn’t been disfigured back then. And these scars weren’t recent. They looked ancient, weathered. Similar to burns, but not. It looked as if the man had been roasted alive and yet somehow survived.
What the fuck had happened?
Bren gave a sharp nod and handed over the dispatch. The Roman continued to stare at him as he broke the seal Caratacus’ aged scholar had painstakingly repaired, as if he recalled every violent incident Bren had instigated during the brief months they’d shared the same garrison.
Let him recall. Officially Bren had never bloodied so much as a Roman nose during that tour of duty. And the ones he’d killed were untraceable. Combined with Dunmacos’ past, Bren’s conduct at that time had ensured him of the utmost respect and trust any Roman aristocrat would bestow upon a foreigner.
Finally the Tribunus lowered his eyes to the dispatch. His expression remained carved in stone as he read how more troops were required by the Legion in the West. How the ambushes and mobile tactics of the displaced Briton king were far more than a mere irritation; how they now ate into the moral fiber of the legionaries on the front line.
This was all the proof the insurgents needed to know their strategies were working. They could defeat the enemy and emerge victorious, no matter how overwhelming the odds appeared.
The Roman looked at him. Bren kept his expression as unreadable as his enemy’s.
“My response will be ready later this day. Remain within sight of the basilica.”
It was a dismissal. “Sir.” And that was perfunctory. A meaningless word to end their confrontation, and Bren turned and marched out of the Tribunus’ presence.
Once outside he sucked in a deep breath and glanced toward the forum that separated the basilica from the gaudy temple erected in honor of the Emperor Claudius. If time permitted, he’d bring Morwyn there after receiving the dispatch. It was nothing like the markets she would be used to from Cymru.
Thinking of Morwyn caused a spear of heat deep in his gut. Lust he recognized, heightening his senses and stirring his cock. Yet there was something else, something less easy to explain. Something that lingered like a candle’s flame in the belly of a cave; unexpected and unwanted.
Sex was all he and Morwyn shared. As soon as they returned to her homeland she would make a bid for freedom. And unless he intended to shackle her like a slave, he’d have no choice but to let her go.
She wasn’t the type to suffer slavery, even if he was inclined to inflict such upon her. She certainly wouldn’t stay with him voluntarily. He would never ask her anyway.
Irritated by the trail of his thoughts, he caught sight of the public baths opposite the basilica. He could do with a thorough cleanse. And there was no better place in which to glean unofficial information than from careless gossip and unwary confidences exchanged while the noble citizens of this Roman colonia relaxed their pampered bodies.
***
Morwyn’s heart thudded high in her chest as she followed Branwen into the forum.
“Did Carys send you after me?” But why hadn’t her friend followed herself? Alarm streaked through her. Had Carys’ precious Roman incapacitated her in some way?
“No.” Branwen glanced at her, then looked hastily away. “She didn’t see you. I didn’t say anything to her in case I was mistaken.”
“So she’s well?” Visions of Carys immobilized by fractured legs or fettered by irons faded.
Again Branwen glanced at her, but this time a smile transfigured her face. “Oh yes, mistress. She’s very well. Glowing.”
For some reason the knowledge that Carys was glowing—what a strange choice of word—didn’t entirely please her. Of course she wanted her friend to be happy. But it sounded as if she was utterly contented, and how could that be when she was isolated from her people, so far from everyone who loved her?
And then Morwyn caught sight of her. Sitting on a stone bench in the shade of a forlorn-looking tree, and her thoughts scattered as emotion choked her throat.
Carys, the girl she’d grown up with, loved as dearly as a younger sister. The woman whose friendship she’d missed so acutely from the day they had parted.
“Carys,” Branwen said as they approached the bench, and Morwyn fleetingly wondered at her lack of respect. Carys was their princess, as well as a powerful Druid—even if she hadn’t completed all her training before their world had shattered. Why would a peasant girl address her so intimately?
And then, between one heartbeat and the next, in the moment as Carys turned to look at them, Morwyn registered the long white gown she wore.
Disbelief curdled her belly and shivered through her blood. Carys was dressed as a Roman matron.
“Morwyn?” Carys rose from the bench, wonderment etched on her beloved features.
The Morrigan preserve us. The prayer slipped through her shocked mind before she could prevent it, but she lacked the strength to recant. Because Carys was pregnant.
Words lodged in Morwyn’s throat; confusion paralyzed her brain. Carys flung her arms around her and held her close. As close as her distended womb would allow. And still she couldn’t unlock her tongue.
“I can’t believe you’re h
ere.” Carys sniffed against her throat, as if she was perilously close to tears. Of their own volition Morwyn’s arms wrapped around Carys, seeking as much as giving comfort, and as if in response, the babe kicked hard against Morwyn’s belly.
Carys laughed, a watery sound, and pulled back, still clinging to Morwyn’s arms. And then her smile faded.
“Sweet Cerridwen.” Tenderly she ran a finger along Morwyn’s face. “How did this happen? Where else are you injured?”
Her face. She had almost forgotten. “There was a minor skirmish, nothing to concern yourself with.” She glanced at Branwen and finally understood the reason for the girl’s scandalized expression. “Rest assured I spilled the guts of at least one of the murderous dogs.”
Carys shook her head and took Morwyn’s hands. “It’s so good to see you, Morwyn. But how did you get here? Is Gawain with you?”
Familiar pain gripped her heart at the mention of his name. “No.” She couldn’t tell Carys about Gawain. Not yet. Her gaze slipped to Carys’ belly and dull rage thudded through her mind. Already the Roman was using her as his brood mare. How could Carys bear to stay with a man who so callously disregarded her rights?
Only her long golden hair remained the same as it had always been. Braided, and threaded through with tiny, glittering jewels.
Carys tugged her down to the bench and continued to hold her hands, as though she would never let go. “You came alone?” A frown creased her brow. “Through occupied Britain? But how—”
Morwyn squeezed Carys’ fingers and shot a glance at Branwen, who had retreated to give them sufficient privacy. “I’m here, Carys. That’s all that matters. It’s you I’m worried about.”
Carys smiled, clearly confused. “You’ve no cause to worry. I’ve been teaching Branwen the sacred knowledge of Cerridwen. She’s a fast learner, Morwyn. But now you’re here I have no fear of the birth at all.”
Morwyn stared into Carys’ bicolored eyes, shock rendering her momentarily mute. Had she understood correctly? Surely she was mistaken.
Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2) Page 11