Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2)

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Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2) Page 22

by Christina Phillips


  She hadn’t corrected him. But of course she couldn’t leave right away. She had babes to bless. Gwyn to settle safely somewhere. And my Gaul.

  But whenever she tried to work out what, exactly, she hoped to accomplish by staying any longer in the settlement with regard to her Gaul, her mind shivered to a halt. As if she knew, deep inside, there was nothing she could do even if she refused to face that fact directly.

  She let out an exasperated breath. She would stay another moon. Two at most. There was much she could do for her people here, who had been so cruelly neglected by their Druids for so long. After all, it wasn’t as if Caratacus would be moving from his magical retreat anytime soon. It would be madness to abandon the haven the Druids had woven around the rebels. And unlike Aeron, Caratacus used the advantage of concealment as a base from which to orchestrate attacks on the Legion.

  Deheune was at the door of her home. “Mistress.” She bowed her head. “We await you.”

  Morwyn smothered her unease over the ultimate fate of her Gaul. It was hard to reconcile that the victory of Caratacus, which of course she desired more than anything else, would result in the defeat of her lover.

  There had to be another way. Something she hadn’t yet realized. A compromise.

  The words hovered in her mind, buzzing like discordant wasps. How could such a compromise ever come to be, when success for one necessitated the sacrifice of the other?

  The small dwelling was stifling, overstuffed with anxious parents and uncaring babes. She glanced around, searching for Gwyn. The child had vanished.

  Fear knifed through her, sudden and illogical. “Where’s Gwyn?” she demanded of Deheune, who smiled vaguely as if she couldn’t understand Morwyn’s manner.

  “She left, as soon as I returned. Was she meant to stay?”

  Was she? Of course not. But for some reason Morwyn couldn’t fathom, the desertion gnawed into her guts. Because she’d expected—no, she’d wanted—Gwyn to wait for her.

  It didn’t make sense. She tried to wipe it from her mind. But a whisper of a thought trickled through her brain. Perhaps the child would return later, when hunger clawed her stomach.

  ***

  Mentally drained after projecting the illusion she was communing with the great goddess for eight separate blessings, Morwyn finally returned to the lodgings. She’d order a tub and luxuriate in a bath. Or perhaps she’d wait until her Gaul returned and give him another decadent show.

  The smile hovered on her lips, not remotely concerned by her desire for a bath above washing in the local river. There was a lot to be said for the privacy of a tub in a room with her lover.

  Then she noticed a familiar shadow crouched in the doorway of the lodgings. “Gwyn?” She didn’t even try to analyze the relief that streaked through her chest at the sight. It eased her mind to know the child was safe, and not in danger of being brutalized. “Where did you go?”

  Gwyn stood up, clutching a grass-woven bag. “Got something for you.” She jiggled her bag. Intrigued, Morwyn ushered her inside, her hand between Gwyn’s skinny shoulder blades, and directed her to her room.

  “What did you get?” She closed the door and sat on the end of the bed. Gwyn tipped her bag upside down and tree bark scattered over the rough covering.

  Morwyn stared, baffled. “Willow bark?”

  “Yes.” Gwyn scrambled on the other end of the bed and hugged her knees. She looked very pleased with herself.

  Morwyn picked up a piece and examined it. “Why?”

  “Because you were running out. I saw. You were frowning and poking at it. So I thought I’d get some for you.”

  Speechless, Morwyn stared at the child. Gwyn stared back, a malnourished, uneducated beggar—who had, without any prompting or instruction, collected willow bark because Morwyn’s supplies were running low.

  Gwyn’s bare feet, already black again with filth, drummed on the bedcover. “I tried finding the berries,” she said, as if Morwyn’s silence was beginning to agitate. “But they were the wrong color.”

  Perhaps Gwyn wasn’t as ignorant as she assumed. Perhaps, before she’d been forced onto the streets, Gwyn had been taught of such things.

  “Do you know why I need the willow bark and berries?”

  Gwyn shrugged. “No.”

  Morwyn fingered the bark and an unexpected yearning to explain, to instruct, bloomed deep inside. As a Druid almost fully trained, part of her duties had been to impart knowledge to the children of noble blood, those who hadn’t yet undertaken the rituals to determine whether or not they possessed the gifts to become acolytes. She’d always loved doing so. Seeing the children’s avid faces as they learnt of the ancient ways had always thrilled her.

  Gwyn wasn’t of the privileged class. There was little chance she possessed the elusive glimmer of perception the gods required of an acolyte. But then, teaching a girl of how the moon influenced her body, of how she could control her fertility and other such feminine wisdom, wasn’t sacrosanct to Druids and nobles. Gwyn was old enough to learn of such things.

  Morwyn opened her medicine bag and, as she showed various samples from her numerous pouches, explained the intricacies of the female cycle to an enthralled Gwyn.

  ***

  As the sun dipped in the sky Morwyn took Gwyn to the market. If she was going to teach the child before she left to find Caratacus, then she would have her properly clothed. A fierce haggler, she procured a length of good-quality wool to be made into a tunic and leather for Gwyn’s feet. The child hugged her treasures in one arm, and stuffed various exotic foods Morwyn tossed her as if she were starving. Smiling at the girl’s delight, she bargained for a cheap necklace and bracelet of red and black beads and fastened them around Gwyn’s throat and wrist.

  Gwyn twirled on the dusty ground, her free arm outstretched, admiring how the beads glittered, and her spinning became more erratic by the moment. Laughing, Morwyn watched her, indulging in the simple pleasure of a child at play, not realizing until now how much she’d missed the children she’d left behind on Mon.

  A mangy dog, clasping a bloodied bone in its mouth, streaked through the marketplace. Morwyn stepped aside but the dog careered into Gwyn, sending her sprawling over its emaciated body, and crashing into the legs of a Roman auxiliary.

  The dog escaped, still clutching its ill-gotten gains, and Morwyn rushed to retrieve her charge. The auxiliary beat her to it.

  “No bones broken?” He flashed a smile at Gwyn, who appeared more distressed that her wool was now dusty than the possibility of broken bones. The auxiliary straightened and transferred his smile to Morwyn. “I think she’ll live.”

  She brushed the grit from Gwyn’s knees and impulsively dropped a kiss onto her cheek. “I believe she will.” She looked up at the auxiliary and before she could stop herself she smiled back.

  How odd. Before she’d met her Gaul, she would sooner spit in the eye of a Roman auxiliary than honor him with a smile. No matter how blue his eyes or appealing his demeanor. But what did a smile cost? He had been gentle with Gwyn when another would have kicked her from his path and cursed at her carelessness.

  “My name is Gervas.” He inclined his head in greeting. “May I have the honor of knowing yours?”

  Morwyn laughed and shook her head. His flirting skills were admirable, even for one of the enemy. Except he didn’t strike her as one of the enemy. Romans and all their cohorts should be humorless, brutal thugs.

  The thought sobered, but only momentarily. The warm bubble of excitement, at the knowledge she would soon see her Gaul again, smothered any negative feeling that attempted to penetrate her brain.

  “Morwyn.”

  “A beautiful name. For a beautiful woman.”

  “You have very pretty manners.” She gave Gwyn a handful of brown, wrinkly fruits to stop her from fidgeting. “For one not of Cymru.”

  “Even in Gaul we can appreciate quality.”

  “From Gaul?” His grasp of her language was excellent but now that she con
sidered it, his accent was very similar to her Gaul’s. “Then perhaps you aren’t all primitive barbarians after all.”

  He laughed, a deep rumbling sound, as if he took not the slightest offense to her remark. “Morwyn, can I entice you and your daughter to share this eve’s meal with me?”

  She glanced at Gwyn, who was engrossed in the sticky fruits, and decided not to correct his assumption. “Thank you, but I must decline.” She hesitated for only the briefest of heartbeats. “I’m involved with another.”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Of course you are. Forgive me for intruding. It was too much to hope you might be free.”

  Gods, but he possessed a silver tongue. Once, she might have been tempted by his outrageous flirtation. But now she would gladly forsake such empty compliments for a single, slow smile from her Gaul.

  “I assure you, I’m not enslaved.” She knew that wasn’t what he had meant, but the assumption she belonged to a man rankled. At least, it should have. Yet somehow it didn’t. As if, obscurely, she wanted to belong.

  “I’ve no doubt,” Gervas said. “Your lover is entirely enslaved by you.”

  An unintentional laugh escaped. Truly, his tongue was gifted. But still she wasn’t tempted. “Beware, Gervas. My lover is also an auxiliary in the Roman Legion. And a Gaul.”

  He grinned. “Then my last hope is crushed underfoot. Even I would hesitate to offend a fellow Gaul.”

  “You’re wise. Dunmacos isn’t one to cross with reckless abandon.”

  She’d said the words in jest, but Gervas stared at her as if she’d just announced she’d been with the Emperor of Rome himself.

  “Dunmacos?” There was no more teasing laughter in his tone. He sounded utterly devoid of emotion.

  “You know him?” But it was obvious Gervas knew of her Gaul. And clearly his impression wasn’t glowing.

  Affront stabbed through her. What was the matter with other men that they always thought the worst of him? No doubt Gervas had heard the same false rumors as Maximus, and had also jumped to ludicrous conclusions. She doubted the two men had even met.

  “Yes, I know him.” Gervas sounded reserved, his attitude no longer one of friendliness. He hadn’t moved, yet his retreat was palpable. “Dunmacos is my cousin.”

  She forgot about ushering Gwyn in the direction of their lodgings and stared at Gervas, shock prickling along her spine. “His cousin?” Her Gaul had not mentioned such a thing. But then, why would he? She had told him nothing of her kin either.

  “Have you been with him long?” Was it her imagination or did his glance flick with scarcely concealed condemnation to the bruises now fading on the left side of her face?

  She tilted her jaw. “Long enough.” Gods, it was obvious from his attitude he believed his cousin had inflicted the injuries upon her. Irritation bubbled. Gervas clearly didn’t know her Gaul at all. “Indeed,” she added in the tone she’d used when addressing recalcitrant children before the invasion, “he was the one who extricated me from those intent on pulverizing my face.”

  “My cousin, the hero.” Gervas sounded faintly disbelieving. “I don’t recall him being so considerate when we were young.”

  From the corner of her eye she caught sight of a familiar figure striding through the emptying marketplace. Instantly her irritation with Gervas melted away. She didn’t care what he thought of his cousin. It made no difference to her.

  “Then perhaps you’d better reacquaint yourself with him.” She flashed Gervas a mocking smile. “My lover approaches.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Negotiating his way through the marketplace on the way back to the lodgings, Bren saw the unmistakable figure of Morwyn by a fruit stall. She glanced his way at the same moment and her smile illuminated her face.

  Heat closed like a fist in his chest, hard and solid, constricting his lungs, but not wholly uncomfortable. Mostly it was renewed relief that, once again, she hadn’t decided to leave.

  That time would come. He knew it in his gut because there could be no other way, but for now he’d take whatever she offered. And hope she never discovered the true depths to which he’d sunk.

  Only when he was almost by her side did he become aware of the man she was with. The Roman auxiliary who regarded him with a face devoid of expression and fiercely intelligent eyes.

  A sense of danger speared through his brain and streaked along his spine. Bren didn’t know who the man was or what he was doing with Morwyn. All he knew was every survival instinct he possessed vibrated with primal warning.

  “It appears,” Morwyn said, and in his peripheral vision he saw she had one hand clasped lightly over the shoulder of a small child, “you harbor as much love for your cousin as he does for you.”

  Cousin. He’d never seen the man before in his life. His heart thudded against his ribs and the fundamental imperative to attack flooded his blood. Poised to thrust his dagger through the man’s throat if his enemy’s fingers so much as twitched.

  The man didn’t move a muscle. They might have been the only two left in the market, so intense was their focus on each other. Except they weren’t alone. Morwyn stood between them. And he couldn’t risk her safety by launching the first move.

  “Dunmacos.” The man’s lips barely moved. His eyes never left Bren’s. “It’s been a long time.”

  Every muscle rigid with tension, Bren remained silent. No matter how long it had been since the cousins had met, he couldn’t believe this man would mistake him for Dunmacos. For whatever purpose, this Gaul had decided not to immediately denounce his cover. Likely the man wanted to corner him alone before gutting him.

  He’d never get the chance.

  “Gervas,” Morwyn said, as if she was perfectly at ease with the other man. At least I now know the Gaul’s name. “Perhaps we can share that meal, after all? The four of us together.”

  Two things pierced his brain. One, Morwyn had just invited his deadliest enemy to share a meal with them. And two, the Gaul had obviously asked her to eat with him before Bren had arrived.

  For one thundering moment he wasn’t sure which fact infuriated him the most.

  Another, inconsequential fact hammered through his pounding temples. Four? He shot a glance at the child, who was staring up at him with big brown eyes. Fearless.

  Where the fuck had the child come from? He looked back at Gervas, who appeared to be considering his response to Morwyn’s suggestion.

  Bren couldn’t afford to allow the other man to refuse. Couldn’t let Gervas return to the garrison and report that Bren was an impostor.

  “Why not?” The Gaul sounded as enthusiastic as Bren felt, and the words fell into the heavy silence like boulders.

  “Good.” Morwyn took the free hand of the child, slid her arm through Bren’s and effectively erected a barrier between him and Gervas. She then proceeded to lead the way to a nearby tavern and procure them a table, and somehow he found himself sitting next to the child, opposite Morwyn, who had managed to seat Gervas in the corner by the wall.

  As military tactics went he couldn’t have planned his position better. But he hadn’t planned it and Morwyn wasn’t a tactician. He shot her a glance, but she appeared serene as she instructed the child to sit up straight and stop picking her nose. She certainly didn’t give the impression that she’d arranged their seating with anything other than sheer coincidence.

  “So, cousin.” Gervas offered a chilly smile. “I’ve followed your progress over the last ten years. Impressive.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage. I’ve not followed your progress at all.”

  Morwyn glanced at Bren as if something in his tone alerted her there was more than simple family dislike in the atmosphere. He didn’t return her glance. Couldn’t afford to take his eyes from Gervas.

  “That,” Gervas said, “doesn’t surprise me.”

  A serving wench deposited an amphora of ale on the table. It could stay there. Bren wasn’t clouding his mind when his life was on the line.


  “And you’ve never served together before?” Morwyn transferred her glance to Gervas, who favored her with a fleeting smile. Something rancid knotted deep in Bren’s gut and he fisted his hands to prevent them from curling around Gervas’ throat and squeezing the life from him.

  “Never,” Gervas confirmed.

  “Then you both must have a great deal to say to each other.”

  Neither man spoke. If Morwyn noticed the animosity simmering in the air, she chose to ignore it. But why did she choose to ignore it? She didn’t normally shy away from confrontation. Or was that only with him? Did she not feel the need to probe and demand answers from Gervas?

  “I’d much rather spend my time talking to you, Morwyn,” Gervas said at last.

  Heat flared through Bren, scorching his mind. The bastard was flirting with her. Under my nose. And Morwyn didn’t put him in his place with a sharp retort.

  Instead she gave a soft laugh as though she found the Gaul’s words amusing.

  “I fear I must disappoint you,” she said, dark eyes flashing as if she enjoyed the interaction. Bren’s chest seethed against iron bands intent on crushing his lungs. “This eve is for you and your cousin to reconnect. I’m only here to stop you killing each other.”

  Momentarily distracted from his rigid self-control, Bren glowered at her. Her choice of words were unfortunate since the only thing he and Gervas appeared to have in common was the desire to murder each other.

  “I applaud you on your choice of Morwyn.” Gervas was now looking directly at Bren. Challenging. “I find it hard to believe you deserve her.”

  He didn’t deserve her. Never would. But that had nothing to do with Gervas.

  Their food arrived. More stew. Was that all they served in this settlement? Beside him the child dived into her bowl, as if she was famished, and a flicker of memory stirred. Did he know this child? How could he know her?

  “Gwyn.” Morwyn lifted her knife and speared a piece of meat. Without any further instruction the girl picked up her own knife and followed Morwyn’s lead. He glanced up, to find Gervas studying him through narrowed eyes.

 

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