Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2)

by Christina Phillips

  “I didn’t have time. I went out after you left.”

  He shot her a look of undisguised astonishment, although he concealed his expression almost instantly. It was as if she’d confessed to a grievous crime, one he could scarcely wrap his mind around.

  Or perhaps he was simply amazed she had dared to leave the inn without his express permission.

  The thought quirked her lips. Hadn’t he told her he found her unpredictable?

  “Why?” His tone was guarded. He obviously couldn’t imagine any reason for her doing such a thing.

  She shrugged and stretched her legs, rotating her ankles and curling her toes. “I wanted to see my friend again.”

  The look on his face was worth the twinges of cramps attacking her calves, and she hid the smile that threatened to surface. Clearly he believed she had lost her mind.

  “Your friend lives in Camulodunon?”

  “Yes. I hadn’t seen her in . . . a while.”

  He appeared to be digesting her revelation, and finding it extraordinarily hard to swallow. “She was a good friend of yours?” He sounded as though he found that beyond belief, as if he had assumed she possessed no friends at all, never mind lifelong ones.

  Oddly, she wasn’t offended by his assumption. Probably because he still looked confused by her casual remarks.

  “She’s like a sister to me. We grew up together.” And they had always believed they would grow old together too. Along with the men they chose and any children they might have decided to birth in the future.

  But that had been another future. For another time.

  Doubt clouded his eyes. He appeared to be weighing up her words, and she had the distinct suspicion he no longer believed her. But why would he think that? What did she have to gain by lying about such a thing?

  “That’s why you speak the Latin of the patricians.”

  Of everything she thought he might have said, that wasn’t one of them. Had she imagined that look of skepticism on his face? Once again he wore his mask of implacability.

  And how intriguing he had leaped to such a conclusion. How had he linked her lifelong friend with her ability to speak the language of the invaders?

  “We shared a tutor. My Latin isn’t perfect because I was older when I began lessons.”

  He glanced at the food as if her conversation no longer interested him, and began to pile cold meat onto a platter. “A Roman tutor?” His voice was casual but she caught the underlying tautness, as if far from uninterest he was, in reality, acutely interested in her words.

  Baffled by such odd behavior, she stood and began to pile fruit and strange-looking vegetables on a second platter.

  “No, of course not. He was Gallic.” She shot him a glance but he continued to examine the food. Carys’ elderly tutor might have originated from Gaul, and he might have been a Druid. But he had also possessed a Roman-bred mother.

  She decided not to mention either of those last two facts.

  “You must have been young when you began your lessons.” He turned and gave her a probing look before settling himself on the bed to eat.

  She sat beside him, closer than necessary, although she wasn’t sure why.

  “I was almost seven when my friend was born.” She couldn’t tell him Carys’ name. He knew Maximus. He might well know the name of Maximus’ wife. And for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, she didn’t want him to make the connection.

  Again he shot her a glance, and this time there was the faintest trace of sympathy softening his hard features. As if the fact she had been taught Latin by a native of Gaul was somehow . . . tragic.

  But that was insane. Why would he think such a thing? It was a massive advantage to understand everything the enemy said. He knew that. He spoke fluent Latin too.

  Since he was now intent on eating and there wasn’t the slightest trace of sympathy on his face, she half wondered if she had imagined it.

  “Didn’t she expect you to stay in Camulodunon for a time?”

  Morwyn licked her sticky fingers and glanced at him. He caught her look and held it, but it wasn’t challenging. He appeared genuinely interested.

  “Yes, of course she wanted me to stay.” The words were out before she could think through the implications. But then, what implication could he draw from such a statement?

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Because I wanted to see you again. Blood heated her face, an infuriating reaction, but she couldn’t help it. And worse, her brain couldn’t conjure up another reason as to why she’d turned down Carys’ invitation. It was as if her only and entire motive for leaving Camulodunon was centered on this Gaul.

  And it wasn’t. She had to leave Camulodunon because . . .

  The real reason drifted with an odd undercurrent of reluctance across her paralyzed mind and she almost sagged in relief.

  “Because I have to return home.” And find where the rebels were hiding. How had she forgotten that? It was her overriding goal. But her gaze dropped from his and she concentrated on her food, because she would die if he somehow guessed by a flicker of her eyes or expression that she wasn’t completely convinced by her own reply.

  ***

  The Gaul sprawled on the other end of the bed, watching her comb the tangles from her hair. After they’d finished eating she’d cleansed her other gown as well as she could and left it to dry over the table. At least it no longer stank of sweat, although there was nothing she could do about the clinging odor of horse or travel until she returned to civilization.

  Gods, she needed to bathe. The image of a Roman tub floated through her mind, and instead of immediately dismissing it, she savored the notion for a few brief moments.

  Perhaps she’d suggest such a thing to him. But this time they could indulge together.

  She smothered a sigh. Clearly, she had not yet had enough of him. She could only hope that, by the time they reached Cymru, her desire for him would cool.

  Otherwise her nights would be plagued not merely by frustrated, lust-driven dreams, but a face and a body instead of an anonymous fantasy lover.

  He opened a pouch that hung from his belt. Idly she watched him. How odd it was, to be sitting at the foot of the bed as if it was the most natural thing for them to share a quiet, domestic moment together.

  She had never lived with a man when such a situation might have arisen. And she certainly wasn’t living with her Gaul, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling, no matter how incongruous.

  “Here.” He pushed himself upright and deposited something onto her lap, scattering her errant thoughts. Bemused, she stared at the riot of vibrant colors splashed across her gown.

  “What is it?” Gingerly she picked up the end of a sunshine golden length of material and gasped. It was cool, soft like the most luxuriant of fur, yet also as smooth as a babe’s skin.

  Enthralled, she traced the tip of her finger across a length of forest green ribbon that reminded her of the Gaul’s eyes. Entranced, she picked up a strip of scarlet and then of summer-sky blue.

  “Silk,” she said, looking at him as he once again reclined at the other end of the bed. He looked uncomfortable, as if he was unused to giving gifts, and offered her a one-shouldered shrug in reply.

  A painful tug knotted the top of her stomach. While she had been contemplating leaving him, he had been purchasing silken ribbons for her.

  “They’re beautiful.” She threaded the green one through her fingers, delighting in the silky sensation against her skin. “Thank you.” And then she couldn’t help herself. “Why?”

  His discomfort was palpable. Even though they weren’t touching, she could feel the way his muscles tensed, as if the last thing he had expected or wanted to do was explain his reasoning for giving her such an unexpected gift.

  “Because.” It was a growl.

  She rolled onto her knees and, holding her treasures in one hand, crawled up the bed beside him. He eyed her with evident suspicion, as if anticipating more unanswerable questio
ns.

  “Because?” She sat back on her heels, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around his neck and show him just how much his gesture meant to her.

  Because it shouldn’t mean that much to her. He had likely bought them only because he felt guilty for abducting her in the first place. And yet even knowing that didn’t change the way she felt.

  She still wanted to wrap herself around him. And, most worrying, never let go.

  He let out a disgruntled breath, as if she were a great annoyance. Anyone catching sight of the scowl on his face would be forgiven for running in terror. Yet she had no fear because no matter how he grimaced or glared, he could never quite hide the truth of his feelings from his eyes.

  Was she the only one who could see that?

  Maximus was mistaken in his opinion. This Gaul with the astonishing chink of vulnerability in his eyes could never be responsible for the crimes leveled against him.

  “Because.” The word was loaded with intense irritation. “Your gown was ruined in the forest.”

  But not by him. Once again she stared at the ribbons, fascinated by how the colors shimmered as she twisted the silk between her fingers.

  He hadn’t got them for her to apologize for abducting her, or chaining her like a slave. He’d bought them because his foul countrymen had attacked her.

  Her brain knew such distinction meant nothing. Either way he had given them to her as a wordless apology for wrongs inflicted upon her.

  Yet another, irrational, part of her insisted that the distinction meant everything.

  ***

  Bren watched Morwyn enter the public baths as if it were something she did on a daily basis. He leaned his shoulder against one of the fluted stone columns that graced the entrance, checked the military dispatch was still safely secured, and folded his arms.

  Morwyn would be a while. When he’d suggested she visit the baths, she’d looked thrilled and hadn’t even tried too hard to hide her reaction. As if she no longer cared whether he knew the thought of such indulgence fascinated her.

  But while her face told him she had no reservations about trying out the Roman baths, her tongue launched into a scathing diatribe of the invaders’ decadence. He hadn’t bothered arguing with her, and after a moment she’d stopped midsentence and started to laugh.

  Unexpected and contrary. Her convictions were as rock, yet she laughed at herself when the irony of her comments became absurd. If he thought she would say one thing, she said another. And while he’d imagined she would deny having left the inn if asked, she’d instead told him without any prompting. As if she considered it her right to come and go as she pleased and it had never crossed her mind he might think otherwise.

  Her pleasure at the ribbons had been gratifying, although he’d been taken aback both by the extent of her evident delight and by his own private satisfaction of her response. They were only ribbons. He was glad she liked them but it was scarcely cause to ignite an odd warmth deep in the pit of his soul.

  He sucked in a deep breath and narrowed his eyes at the still-bustling forum on the opposite corner of this most prestigious square in Camulodunon. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t expect Morwyn to confide in him, but the things she had let slip didn’t add up.

  If she’d been a companion—or, more likely, a slave—to a patrician child, then she would have been in another province, as Britain had only been occupied for eight years. Maybe Gaul—she had admitted as much when she’d mentioned the tutor.

  Yet she acted as if Cymru was not only her homeland, but the only place she had ever been before traveling to Camulodunon. Why did she insist she had never experienced the Roman ways before when she’d spent most, if not all, of her childhood in a Roman household?

  More to the point, why was he so interested? It didn’t affect his plans one way or another. And yet still he wanted to know how old she had been when she’d left Cymru. How long she’d been back. Why her Roman mistress had allowed her to leave, when the bond between them was so obvious.

  Maybe she just wanted to wipe the experience from her mind. He could understand that. If she’d been abducted from her family while still a child, no wonder she’d reacted so furiously when he’d chained her like a slave.

  And he couldn’t even ask her. Because then he’d have to admit he’d seen her in the forum, embracing the Roman, and hadn’t mentioned it before.

  It was only later, as Morwyn emerged from the bathhouse glowing and pampered and wearing the green silk ribbon in her hair, that it occurred to him he’d just missed the perfect opportunity to read the military dispatch.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Instead of returning to the inn, the Gaul took her into a tavern in the forum. They sat near the door, for both light and fresh air, and Morwyn breathed deep, savoring the strange, foreign aromas that scented her hair and body.

  “What’s your verdict on the Roman bathing experience?” His eyes glinted at her, as if daring her to say how much she had loathed the procedure.

  “Extraordinary.” She’d forgotten how utterly wonderful it was to be massaged so thoroughly. She hadn’t been so pampered since the Romans had invaded and she and her fellow Druids had fled to the magical enclave Aeron created. An enclave prohibited to all others, including their slaves and servants who had been left to fend for themselves.

  He made a noncommittal noise that sounded rather like a grunt. As if he didn’t believe her.

  She rolled her shoulders and felt deliciously aroused. “Of course, I’ve been massaged in the past.” Now why had she told him that? She didn’t want him guessing she wasn’t really from the trading class. But too late to worry about that now. Besides, he didn’t look as if he’d jumped to the conclusion she was of noble blood. And certainly she’d said nothing that could point to her Druid ancestry.

  “Have you?” His voice was completely neutral, as though he found nothing either strange or commonplace about her comment.

  “Oh yes.” She flicked her hand in a dismissive gesture. “But never before have I been so thoroughly exfoliated.” She stretched out the word for emphasis, and exquisite shivers danced between her thighs at the memory.

  At least that caught his attention. He looked at her, clearly unsure he’d heard her correctly, and then transferred his attention to the amphora of wine on the table as if it fascinated him.

  She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on the backs of her fingers. He was pouring water for her from his personal waterskin and wine for himself, which was a little odd but she wasn’t about to complain. Wine befuddled her mind and she’d never much cared for the sour taste of ale.

  “My legs,” she said, as he raised the goblet to his lips, “feel as soft as my silken ribbons.”

  His eyes darkened. “I’ll examine your claim later.” His voice was low and vibrated with desire. Satisfied with such reaction, she leaned a little farther over the table.

  “And my pussy is near naked.”

  He choked, wine splaying from his mouth, and shot her a look of utter disbelief. A smug smile tilted her lips and she waited for his response. He appeared unable to articulate one.

  “Well?” she prompted. “Do you intend to examine that claim later also?”

  “Intimately.” His voice was hoarse, and he took a hasty gulp of wine as if that might ease his throat.

  “And this night,” she said, “I intend to examine you as intimately.”

  For a fleeting moment she thought grim disgust flashed across his face. But it vanished so swiftly perhaps it hadn’t been there at all. Because now he looked at her in a way that made her damp and tight and deliciously uncomfortable between her thighs.

  Gods. How could she want him so savagely so soon after slaking her lust? Was it because her skin still tingled from the thorough cleansing ritual she’d enjoyed?

  Or was it simply because the Gaul was . . . her Gaul?

  ***

  They arrived back at the inn just as dusk fell. He hadn’t touched her on the jo
urney but she’d been achingly aware of him next to her, and on the few occasions his arm had brushed hers, lightning skittered along her nerves.

  By the time he opened the door to their room she was so aroused she wanted to throw him to the floor and ravish him.

  She sucked in a shaky breath. She’d done that once already this day. Although the door had substituted for the floor and he’d craftily switched their positions so he’d been in control.

  This time he wouldn’t wrest power from her so easily. This time she would—

  Her thoughts shattered as he gripped her shoulders and jerked her toward him, his mouth on hers. Hard and hot and merciless as he invaded and plundered her parted lips.

  A moan slid along her throat, echoed through her mouth, and she thrust her own tongue against his, seeking and finding. He tasted of wine and spices and primitive aroused male.

  She buried her fingers in his hair, so short, so foreign and yet so surprisingly erotic. His hands slid from her shoulders and without breaking their ravaging kiss he tugged open the ties at her bodice.

  Her fingers dropped to his chest and feverishly she attempted to locate his elusive fastenings. He broke contact, panting in her face, his eyes dark in the flickering light from the lamps.

  “Take off your gown.” His rough command sent tremors through her wet sheath but she wasn’t about to let him get away with issuing orders.

  “No.” She flashed him a smile and tried to drag his chain mail from his chest.

  He captured her fingers with one hard hand. “Remove your gown.” He pressed her hands against her breast and released her. “Or by the gods I’ll rip it from you.”

  A spear of primal lust lanced through her. Her breath shortened and she stared up at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  His fingers slid into her bodice and his knuckles grazed her sensitized flesh. She arched against him, felt his hands fist, and then he ripped her bodice to her waist as if it were made of nothing more substantial than spring leaves.

  Astonishment and disbelief tumbled through her, but before she could even take a breath, violent desire incinerated all other emotions.