Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2)

by Christina Phillips

  Yet underneath her disdain, the need to believe flourished. And even though she couldn’t embrace her goddess, couldn’t forgive how the Morrigan had demanded they flee from Cymru on that night of devastation, she couldn’t deny the comfort these people drew from their deity’s name.

  It was a small sacrifice. To pretend nothing had changed when everything had if it made such a difference to so many. She gathered her things and tried to smother the odd tug deep in her breast.

  She didn’t need this. She hadn’t missed it. This bestowing from the goddess was no longer her calling.

  “Mistress.” Deheune hurried up to her and then paused, anxiety flashing across her face. She held out a small bundle. “It’s not much, but I pray it’s acceptable to the goddess.”

  Heat burned Morwyn’s cheeks. She clamped her lips together against the words that tumbled on her tongue. By the look of things, these people could scarcely manage to feed and clothe themselves. She didn’t want to take their meager offering from their mouths. But to refuse, no matter how delicately she worded it, would only cause grave offense.

  “I thank you on behalf of the Morrigan.” She took the bundle, and felt like a thief. In the past, these naming rituals were a great and wonderful celebration; a cause for lavish sacrifice and feasting. Several babes would be blessed at the one ritual, the cost spread among countless kin and enjoyed in the sacred oak groves of their ancestors.

  Not hidden inside a drafty shack, away from disapproving enemy eyes.

  A dull ache gripped her heart. Just because she had discovered their gods were nothing but weak, malleable cowards, she realized she didn’t want their names and ways to be lost, crushed underfoot by the equally despicable Roman deities.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. When the battle was won, when the invaders were driven from their lands, order would be restored. And in that order, their gods would once again reign supreme.

  She just wasn’t sure that when that happened, she could stomach taking her rightful place with her fellow Druids.

  “I’ll pass the word, mistress.” Deheune’s whisper was conspiratorial. Morwyn stared at her, uncomprehending. “To the others,” she added. “There have been a great many births since the night of devastation. Your arrival’s like . . . It’s like a miracle, mistress.”

  Her mouth dried as panic kicked in her gut. How could she bear to repeat this ancient ritual, mouth the holy words, invoke the spirit of the great goddess when she didn’t believe?

  Sweat prickled her skin, her palms clammy. She couldn’t do it. And not just because of her personal feelings. She was leaving, to join Caratacus. To fight for these people’s freedom. Surely that was more important than staying and blessing innocent babes?

  Deheune gazed at her, at first with wide-eyed trust and then with growing apprehension, as if she guessed Morwyn’s thoughts. The notion horrified.

  “Don’t be distressed.” Deheune dared to lay the tips of her fingers on Morwyn’s wrist before hastily snatching her hand back as if she couldn’t believe her audacity. “Only some have embraced Rome. Most of us long for the old ways. We know whom to trust, mistress. Your presence among us would never be betrayed to the enemy.”

  Because if the enemy captured a Druid, even a lapsed Druid, they’d crucify her without a moment’s hesitation as a warning and reminder of their cursed Emperor’s edict.

  As they would Carys, if they discovered her true identity in Camulodunon.

  Chills scuttled over her arms. That hadn’t occurred to her at the time. Morwyn had scarcely thought twice about Carys’ confidences. But if the Romans found out she was not only a Druid but also passing on her knowledge, pregnant or not, crucifixion would be the least of her tortures.

  She stared into Deheune’s anxious eyes, and realization dawned. Carys might not intend to take up weapons and fight the enemy in hand-to-hand combat. But, in her own way, she was fighting them all the same.

  How could Morwyn refuse to bless these people’s babes? It would give them renewed hope and strengthen their faith to keep strong under the enemy’s thumb. She could still find her way to the Briton king. She would just leave a few days later than she’d first intended—that was all.

  A smoky vision of her Gaul drifted across her mind and she smothered a sigh. Yes, it meant she could also enjoy a few more days of his company, but that wasn’t the reason she was staying.

  It wasn’t.

  The thought thudded in her skull. Liar.

  “We’d only share the knowledge of your presence with those we trust.” Deheune edged a little closer. “There’s one other Druid in hiding here. One of the Elders, a chosen one of Belatucadros. Those who’ve kept his presence secret these last five moons would never betray you, mistress.”

  ***

  Light was fading when Morwyn finally returned to their lodgings. Her head throbbed and heart hammered and blood thundered through her veins, yet despair dampened her excitement at the knowledge she could share nothing of what she had done or discovered with her Gaul.

  In the morn she was retuning to Deheune’s home, where she’d be escorted to the Druid Elder, the chosen one of the god of war and destruction. It was his calling, the woman had explained without even a trace of resentment, that prevented him from participating in any of the Morrigan’s rituals. Even though, as Morwyn well knew, he would be more than capable of undertaking such ceremonies.

  The Gaul was leaning against the stone wall of the lodgings, arms crossed, looking formidable and deadly. And obviously waiting for her.

  A sharp pain stabbed through her heart, as if he had plunged a dagger into her breast. Her breath stumbled, and for a moment the notion fluttered across her mind as to how different this would all be, if only he hadn’t pledged his loyalty to the Romans.

  But he had. And she was forever pledged to rid her land of the invaders. The pain dulled, curled into a hard knot, and she dragged in a deep breath in an attempt to dislodge the constriction blocking her throat.

  Somehow, despite everything, she’d begun to like her Gaul. As she drew level with him, his harsh features relaxed and the faintest smile touched his lips, as if he hadn’t been certain she intended to return.

  Like him? Who was she trying to fool? She more than liked him, no matter how many times she reminded herself of the abduction or the way he’d chained her.

  She cared for him. And it could lead to nothing but despair.

  “You didn’t lose your way.” It wasn’t a question, more a statement of fact. He threaded her fingers through his, as if he didn’t care who saw them, and tugged her against his side.

  “Of course not.” When had she started to care for him? She’d tried so hard to keep her distance. But she should have known back in Camulodunon. When she’d declined Carys’ offer to remain.

  “Been shopping?” He glanced at the bundle she still grasped in her other hand. She’d almost forgotten about it. “There was no need. Food’s included in the price of lodgings.”

  She didn’t know precisely what was in the bundle, except it felt like an assortment of root vegetables. A rich sacrifice, but an odd mixture of choice if she had truly bartered for their meal that eve.

  “I didn’t realize.” She glanced at a tiny beggar crouched by the side of the dwelling. “Here.” She held out the bundle and after a moment of clear astonishment the ragged creature darted out and snatched it from her hand. Dark hair matted, skin embedded with grime, it was impossible to tell whether it was a girl or a boy.

  With a silent sigh Morwyn turned away from the sight of the beggar tearing open the bundle. There was nothing she could do. Beggars appeared to proliferate under the mighty Roman occupation.

  Once inside their room, the Gaul opened one of his pouches attached to his belt, turned her hand over and tipped a pile of coins onto her palm. “Your change from the sale of your bracelet.”

  Impressed, she stowed the coins in one of her own leather pouches. “You must have remarkable bartering skills.”

>   “I don’t get cheated, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I can believe it.” She rose onto her toes and brushed a kiss across his lips. Why not enjoy his touch while she could? She wanted to make as many memories with him as possible. Memories she could remember for the rest of her life.

  “Tempting.” He pulled back, a grin illuminating his face. She sucked in a shocked breath and tried to rearrange her thought but couldn’t.

  He was definitely grinning. And it transfigured his face even more fundamentally than his elusive smiles. Mesmerized, she stared, uncaring of the passage of time or how hunger growled in the pit of her stomach.

  If only she could capture this look, seal it for eternity, so every smallest detail would remain fresh in her mind no matter how many seasons might pass.

  “More than tempting, if you continue to look at me with such adoration in your eyes.” His tone implied he was flirting in the most outrageous manner. Her Gaul, flirting, when only days ago she had wondered if he even knew the meaning of the word.

  “It’s tragically obvious your eyes require a thorough cleansing.” Except she had the worrying notion he had seen more in her look than she intended. She accompanied her remark with a haughty toss of her head, in hopes of distracting his attention.

  “Maybe.”

  Gods, and still he flirted. Fascinated, she could only continue to stare at him as if she had never seen him before. And it was almost as if she hadn’t. He seemed . . . different. She couldn’t place it. And then something odd about his appearance occurred to her.

  “You’re not wearing your chain mail or helmet.” He always wore his armor, unless they were readying for bed. It was as if their absence lifted a great weight from his shoulders, and not a physical weight but spiritual.

  He slid his arm around her waist and escorted her to the door. “And that’s why I have the strength to resist your charms in favor of eating first. Because I can spend the night with you.”

  Confused, she smiled up at him. Of course he was spending the night with her. Where else would he sleep?

  They entered a room that was dark, stuffy and filled with a tantalizing aroma of simmering food. A swarthy man took one look at her Gaul and lumbered over to them, jerking his head to indicate they should follow. He then proceeded to grasp the hair of two youths sitting at a corner table and toss them across the floor.

  “Here,” he said, wiping the spills on the table with the sleeve of his tunic.

  They sat opposite each other. “Wine?” The Gaul took a pottery amphora from a serving girl and picked up a goblet in readiness.

  “This eve you offer me wine?” She raised her eyebrows. “Every other time you gave me water.” Not that she minded. Had she wanted wine after that second night, she would have taken some whether he’d offered or not.

  “You’re welcome to have water. I thought you might prefer wine for a change since we’re unlikely to be watched.”

  “Watched?” Involuntarily she glanced around the crowded room, where Celts ate with relish and drank local ale and Roman wine with abandon. There didn’t appear to be any Romans. Unless they dressed as locals when off duty.

  “Rome,” the Gaul said, “doesn’t approve of women enjoying wine.”

  “Rome,” she said, “doesn’t approve of women.”

  He laughed, and didn’t try to smother it. She forgot about her wine and smiled back, entranced by his humor. “You’re not of that same mind, then?”

  “No.” He took a swallow of the dark golden liquid. “Taken in moderation, why not?”

  She leaned over the table, careful not to touch the sticky surface. “Is it an edict from their gods?”

  “I doubt it.” The faintest trace of derision threaded his words although the smile still hovered on his lips.

  There was so much she wanted to know about him. So much she knew she never would. But perhaps he wasn’t entrenched in Roman culture. Perhaps she might be able to tell him a little of herself, after all.

  “Do you worship their gods?”

  He hesitated for the merest moment, not as if he didn’t trust her with his answer but as if he’d never before been asked such a question.

  “No.”

  Her heart thudded against her ribs in sudden excitement. “Our gods?” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. Even if her faith had diminished, it would still be a bond between them. She didn’t even bother analyzing why she wanted to find a bond between them.

  “Do you believe in them, Morwyn?” His voice was low, his eyes mesmeric. Her breath caught in her throat and amplified her heartbeat.

  “I don’t know.” It was a breathy whisper, and in that moment she truly didn’t know. Only knew she wanted, more than anything, to believe in him.

  He smiled again, but this time it was tarnished with bitterness. “All gods are the same.” He finished his wine and poured another. “They speak through priests and oracles, or”—his gaze lanced through her—“Druids.” The word dripped with venom.

  It was as if he’d physically punched her in the face, and she only just prevented herself from reeling back in shock. His face was no longer twisted with revulsion, as it had when he’d spat Druids at her, but the image was burned into her brain.

  She licked her lips and longed for water to moisten her dry mouth. “You don’t care for Druids?” She might be battling a personal crisis, but whatever she did with her life, nothing would change the blood in her veins, her Druidic ancestry or the destiny she had once been expected to fulfill.

  “I feel nothing for them.” He tapped the stem of his goblet as if recalling distant events. “Except contempt.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Morwyn couldn’t trust herself to speak. She picked up her goblet and gulped down the strong wine. It scorched her throat, but not as much as the Gaul’s words scorched her heart.

  Of course, she hadn’t intended telling him she was a Druid. To admit such to one who worked for the enemy was tantamount to a death sentence. But the possibility of ever confiding in him, however remote that had been, crumbled to dust.

  But she was leaving soon. Why did it matter?

  The answer glinted out of reach, insubstantial. She didn’t know why it mattered so much. Only that it did.

  She sucked in a deep breath. He was staring at her, as if wondering why she was so silent. The notion flickered that perhaps she should confront his comment. After all, surely most of the populace still retained ample respect for the Druids? Or did they? She’d been sequestered on a sacred Isle. How could she truly know what the general population thought of Druids anymore?

  She couldn’t rouse his suspicions. Didn’t want to rouse his suspicions—was there a difference?

  Sweat slicked the back of her neck and the palms of her hands. She had the sick sensation there was a vast chasm of difference.

  “It’s fortunate”—her voice sounded cool, even slightly bored, although she hadn’t the first idea how she managed such a feat—“the paranoia of the Roman Emperor drove all Druids into hiding.”

  She tensed her muscles, waiting for his response. No doubt he would now condemn all Druids as cowards, for abandoning their people in their time of need. Why else would he feel such contempt?

  “Maybe not all.” He paused while a serving wench deposited two bowls of steaming stew onto the table. “While in Camulodunon I heard rumors that the wife of the tribune there was a runaway Druid.”

  Her stomach churned, and hunger melded into horror. How safe could Carys be if such rumors were rife? What if her Gaul told his superiors of the suspicions surrounding the wife of one of their patrician officers? Did Maximus possess the power and connections necessary to protect their princess from persecution?

  The Gaul shot her a probing glance, as if her tangled thoughts showed clearly on her face. She struggled to maintain her composure but panic thudded through her blood and hammered against her skull.

  She had to alleviate his suspicion.

  “A Druid?” She inj
ected as much skepticism in her tone as she could. And hoped he couldn’t hear the ragged beat of her heart that punched through each word. “That doesn’t seem likely.” She feigned interest in the stew, but her appetite had fled. “Surely a filthy Roman officer would have a Druid’s head on a spike before he’d welcome her into his bed.”

  “I imagine that would depend entirely on how desirable he found her.”

  Gods, she was going to vomit. Carys’ life could depend on whether she managed to steer the Gaul’s interest away from the likelihood of a Roman officer taking a Druid as his wife.

  She fixed him with what she hoped was an expression that conveyed both exasperation and boredom. “A Druid would rather kill herself than submit to the enemy.” The next words choked, but she forced them out. “Or she’d find a way to run and hide. Druids are good at hiding from danger.”

  He gave a grim laugh, as if he had personal experience of such things. “True. And no Roman patrician would want to damage his chances of rising through the ranks by taking such a wife.” He speared a sliver of meat with his knife and regarded it, in much the same way she could imagine he regarded a severed limb of an enemy in battle. Dispassionately. “Rumor or not, it provided for great gossip in the bathhouse. He should have known by taking a foreigner he was asking for such trouble.”

  Had the danger passed? Did he still think the tribune, who could be none other than Maximus, had married a Druid or merely an ordinary Celt?

  “I pity the woman.” Morwyn’s voice was lofty and she stirred her stew as if it fascinated her. “I only hope her love proves true. She must have given up everything in order to be with him.”

  “Perhaps she wasn’t given the choice.” His white, even teeth pulled the meat from the tip of the knife. “Perhaps, in truth, she’s nothing more than his official concubine.”

  Affront slashed through her on Carys’ behalf, at the mere suggestion her princess could be relegated to such a lowly status. But anything was better than adding even a hint of credence to the notion Maximus had taken a Druid as his wife.