Trogus raised his hands, dropping his arrow to the ground but leaving his bow across his saddle. “I come in peace.” His words appeared to have no visible effect. He took a deep breath. If he was wrong, he might take out one of them before dying. “At the request of my blood brother, Bren.”
The barbarians didn’t move a muscle, but neither did they launch their spears at him. His breathing grew a little easier. “I come to fight by Caratacus’ side against the Roman bastards.”
The barbarian on the left jerked his spear, a clear indication for Trogus to dismount. He did so, slinging his bow across his shoulder as he landed on the ground.
“You, follow me.” The barbarian turned to his compatriot. “I’ll send reinforcements back.”
The other one nodded, but didn’t look overly happy by the situation. Trogus smothered a sneer. They were woefully unprepared should an attack occur. Were the Romans in charge—or even the Gauls—this entrance would be crawling with guards. Not a mere two or three.
As soon as they were a safe distance from the entrance, Trogus dispatched the barbarian with insulting ease. And they called themselves warriors? How had such ill-prepared specimens managed to so rile the Legion?
He hauled the body into the undergrowth, gripped the reins of his horse, and went farther into Caratacus’ lair.
***
As the children used reeds to blow leaves at one another, Gwyn appeared more interested in watching Morwyn prepare darts with berry poison. It was hard to reconcile the child’s low birth with her aptitude to learn. She would make a more than satisfactory acolyte.
The ember of guilt didn’t ever stir. She’d take that as a sign the Morrigan didn’t disapprove. Yet in a small, rebellious section of her mind she wondered—wouldn’t she continue to teach Gwyn, whatever the opinion of her goddess?
An elderly peasant woman hobbled to the stream, to inform Morwyn the midday meal was ready. As they returned to the cromlech, Morwyn excused herself. She was in dire need to relieve herself.
She walked some distance from the cromlech and found a suitably concealed patch of earth behind some bushes. How odd that in such a short space of time she’d got used to the convenience of Roman latrines.
A jagged sigh escaped and no matter how she tried to skirt the thought, her Gaul intruded. Was he angry that she’d left him? Would he miss her at all? Or had she been so blinded by her own feelings that she’d imagined that tender look in his eyes?
Approaching footsteps and raised voices, taking no care for stealth, headed her way. Goddess, she hoped they didn’t intend to march right through her privacy. It was one thing to share such necessities of life with friends, but she didn’t relish being caught by strangers with her gown around her knees.
She hunched lower, willing them to hurry and pass so she could finish in peace. Now they were so close she could distinguish the words of their conversation.
“It’s no good shouting at me, Bren.” The man sounded exasperated, as if he had repeated that statement many times in the past. “We don’t have the resources to man the entrance the way you’d like. Four warriors is the maximum we can spare.”
“There were only three.” The voice vibrated with fury. Morwyn choked on a breath and leaned forward, squinting through her prickly green-leafed shield.
She was mistaken. She’d been thinking about her Gaul, and her depraved mind had allowed her to hear his voice in place of the stranger’s. Her Gaul couldn’t be here, in Caratacus’ enclave, because that would mean—
Chills streaked along her arms. Did it mean he had followed her? Had she led the enemy into the king’s camp?
From her vantage point she could see only their legs. Even their feet were invisible, concealed by the tangled undergrowth. Goddess, let her be mistaken. My Gaul can’t be here.
Chapter Thirty
“Yes, so now our resources are more stretched than ever,” the first man said.
“Why?” It was a demand, and it was most certainly her Gaul. Morwyn held her breath, as if he might be able to hear her, but she couldn’t quell the thunderous staccato of her heart that echoed around the forest in horrified disbelief.
“No doubt the king will inform you.” The voice grew fainter as they marched farther into the forest.
“No doubt.” Even from a distance, her Gaul sounded grim.
She fell onto her knees and dug her fingers into the dried earth. Her Gaul—Dunmacos. She would call him Dunmacos because he wasn’t her Gaul. He never had been her Gaul except inside the deepest recess of her heart. And no matter what the other man called him, no matter what lies Dunmacos had woven, she knew the truth.
And he was being taken directly to Caratacus.
She scrubbed her hands in the dirt, as if that might scrub the stain from her soul, but still the ache of betrayal consumed her. Staggering to her feet, she peered into the forest and caught a glimpse of the men ahead.
The other man knew him. Called him by name, even if it wasn’t his true name. That meant she hadn’t led him here. That meant he had been here before. Was trusted enough to be taken to Caratacus.
Nausea turned her stomach and caused her limbs to shiver. She’d thought she had nothing left to lose. She had been wrong.
Dunmacos was her enemy. He had murdered Gawain. But until now she’d never doubted his loyalty to his Roman masters.
It was, she now realized, something she’d clung to. His innate integrity.
Even that illusion was now torn from her. He possessed no integrity. No matter how much she hated the invaders or disliked the fact her Gaul had chosen a career as an auxiliary in their Legion, she’d drawn comfort from the knowledge he’d never lied to her. He hadn’t pretended to be on her side. Hadn’t tried to manipulate her by telling her what she wanted to hear.
He had pledged himself to the Roman Empire. She had grown to respect his choice even if she could never embrace it.
But it was a duplicitous facade. He had done nothing but lie to her from the moment they’d met. He was a Gaul, pledged to Rome and betraying them to the Britons. He was nothing more than a traitor to his people.
Just like Aeron.
She kept to the shadows as she followed the two men deeper into the forest. She may not have struck the blow that killed Aeron, but she had been the means to his destruction.
Just as now she had the means of destroying . . . her Gaul.
***
The forest opened to a clearing, where half a dozen steep slopes cut into the surrounding tree line. As she darted from the cover of one tree to the next she saw a group of men, who pulled back from their leader as Dunmacos and his companion entered the dusty clearing.
“Bren,” the man—Caratacus?—said, and Dunmacos fell to one knee in greeting. Morwyn shivered in distaste at his hypocrisy and slid cold fingers over the hilt of her dagger.
Caratacus jerked his head at his men, who instantly left the clearing. She pulled back into the shadows and held her breath, but none of them came close to her hiding place. Goddess, what lengths had Dunmacos gone to in the past, in order to have secured the king’s trust that he would dismiss his warriors?
When she returned her attention to the Briton, Dunmacos was once again on his feet. She edged closer until she was at the perimeter of the clearing, until she was a child’s stone’s throw away from the two men.
“. . . feared something had happened to detain you,” Caratacus said.
“No.” Her Gaul no longer looked deferential. In fact, he looked as if he was trying to hold on to his temper. “I thought you’d discarded your plans for outright combat.”
Queasiness churned. Dunmacos had inveigled himself very close to the seat of power if he could suggest such things without being accused of treason.
“No, Bren. You want to discard our plans. Not I.”
“Gods’ sakes, Caratacus!” The words erupted from his mouth. “The Romans will fucking slaughter us. Our warriors don’t have the discipline to meet them as equals on the killing f
ields.”
She huddled against the trunk of the tree, the rough bark scraping her face. Why was he cautioning against open combat? Just because he was betraying Rome didn’t mean he possessed any loyalty toward the Britons. Why would he care if Caratacus’ followers were slaughtered?
Was he was trying to prevent needless bloodshed for the Legion?
Except if he was deceiving the Romans, that makes even less sense. Whose side was he on?
For the first time anger flashed across Caratacus’ features. “Our warriors are fearless. We’re more than a match for the spineless Roman barbarians.”
Dunmacos swung on his heel and marched directly toward Morwyn. As if he knew her hiding place. But then he whirled and paced back to the Briton. “Our tactics are working. They’re sending the Legion of Ostorius Scapula from Camulodunon to boost morale. Continue as we have been and we will prevail.”
“Another Legion?” Caratacus expelled a breath between gritted teeth. “All the more reason to change tactics, Bren. They won’t be expecting it. We can wipe them out.”
She had never heard of Ostorius Scapula, but it was clear Dunmacos had gleaned that information from the dispatch he’d opened that night in Camulodunon. Goddess, she was so confused. Was he betraying the Romans or Caratacus?
An unsavory answer slithered into her mind. Both?
“And nothing I say can change your mind?”
“It was already done the last time we spoke, Bren. The last of our Druids and warriors are leaving this enclave today. I was waiting only for your return.”
Breath ragged, she stealthily retreated as a sickening realization clawed into her heart. Whatever the truth was, Caratacus believed Dunmacos was loyal to him. The Briton wouldn’t believe the word of her, a stranger, above that of a man he obviously trusted.
But it wasn’t that that sickened her. It was the knowledge she couldn’t expose her Gaul as a traitor, even now. Not to the Briton king, not to the Roman Legion.
She had no love for the Romans. But something deep inside her soul withered at the evidence Dunmacos could so easily betray those to whom he’d given his pledge.
The tip of a blade pierced between her shoulder blades and she froze. She’d been so intent on watching her Gaul, so intent on her tumultuous thoughts, she’d given no heed to where she was going. Would she be hauled before the king for eavesdropping, thrown at his feet in an ignoble heap?
In front of her Gaul?
“We meet again.” The hoarse whisper was eerily familiar although she couldn’t place it. She began to turn, and the blade jabbed against the top of her spine, paralyzing her in sudden terror. That voice. She recognized it, but from where?
A hand closed around her biceps and dragged her further back into the forest and she stumbled on the tangled roots, unable to see where she was going. Then he jerked her around and flung her against the broad trunk of a tree. And she remembered.
“You?” The word gasped, disbelieving, and instinctively her fingers flew to the hilt of her dagger. He grinned, a slashing of lips and a flash of teeth, and waved his own dagger in front of her eyes, stilling her hand.
“I’m guessing,” the Gaul barbarian said, “Dunmacos didn’t bring you here himself.”
She wasn’t going to talk about Dunmacos, not to this piece of filth. “You’re with Caratacus?” Was the entire auxiliary unit of the Legion working for the Briton king?
For a moment he didn’t answer, merely traced the tip of his blade along the length of her nose, over her compressed lips and jaw, until he came to a halt at the base of her throat. She hoped he couldn’t see how frantically her pulse raced. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly he affected her.
“Caratacus charged me with finding the bastard who’s been selling information to the Romans. You’re lucky you escaped when you did. He was out for your blood yesterday.”
She didn’t believe him. And yet in a dark corner of her mind his words made obscene sense. How else would he know she’d escaped Dunmacos the previous day?
“I’m more inclined to believe you’re the traitor, not him.”
“Yes, that would make it very convenient, wouldn’t it?” He trailed his dagger downward, as if it were an extension of his finger, tracing across the vulnerable swell of her breast. “But untrue. If you could see the slaughter his betrayal’s cost us. Children. Babies. A quagmire of innocent blood. All because Dunmacos would sell his soul for extra coin in his pouch.”
She forced a derisive laugh. “And you, a brutal would-be rapist, are the savior of Cymru?”
The tip of his dagger ripped through the top thread of her bodice. She refused to acknowledge his action and maintained eye contact. Because at the first flicker of distraction, she would strike.
He ripped through a second thread but didn’t even glance at his handiwork. “Caratacus trusts me with his life. Why else do you think he sent me undercover in the Legion to spy on Dunmacos?”
***
Within moments of leaving his king, Bren froze as the unmistakable voice of Trogus came from seemingly nowhere. Was he losing his mind? Was his fury over Caratacus’ plans causing him to hear things?
There wasn’t any way Trogus could have found his way into the hidden enclave. And then a chill scuttled along the back of his neck. He hadn’t been as meticulously careful in concealing his tracks this day. Gods, was it possible that because of his black preoccupation, Trogus had been able to follow him?
Bren unsheathed his dagger and turned in the direction from where the voice had originated. Although whom Trogus was talking to he couldn’t imagine. Far more likely the bastard would kill anyone he saw on sight.
And this was why they’d needed sufficient guards at the entrance. Gods, it drove him insane when—
“No one in their right senses would send a creature like you to spy on a warrior such as Dunmacos. He possesses more honor in one glance than you could hope to salvage in seven lifetimes.”
For one amplified, echoing heartbeat that vibrated every bone in his body and rattled his brain against his skull, Bren knew he had tumbled into madness.
Morwyn couldn’t be here. Captured by Trogus—once again—and forced to listen to the filthy lies that spewed from the other man’s mouth.
And instead of pleading for her life, or agreeing with Trogus in hopes of lowering his guard, she was defending Bren?
The last revelation slammed him back to the present. She was at Trogus’ mercy—there was no doubt in his mind of her predicament—and yet she defended him against Trogus?
“Bastard fooled you easy enough.” Trogus sounded amused. Bren edged forward and now he could see how Trogus had Morwyn pinned against a tree, how his dagger traced insolently over her partially exposed breast. “Would you like me to tell you of his bloodlust as he slaughters your countrymen for the might of Rome?”
Bren sucked in a calming breath through his mouth, but his blood boiled in his veins at the knowledge it was his fault Trogus had found the enclave. His fault Morwyn was, yet again, in danger.
He angled into position, calculated the distance and drew his sword in his free hand on the slender possibility that his first assault wouldn’t sufficiently disable Trogus.
Morwyn laughed, the sound sharp and eerie and wrong, and it momentarily threw Bren off balance. “How much longer do you intend to regale me with the bold deeds of Dunmacos? Can it be his exploits excite you? Is that the only way your putrid worm of a cock thickens?”
Curse the gods, what was she thinking? Did she want Trogus to plunge the dagger through her heart? Even from this distance Bren could see the mad gleam in the other man’s eyes. Without waiting for further proof of Morwyn’s inability to protect her self-interests, he sent the dagger flying and it impaled Trogus’ cheek, hurling him to the ground.
Bren covered the short distance in an instant, intending to prize Morwyn from the tree and crush her in his arms to comfort her. But she was already on her knees by Trogus, who was trying
desperately to tug Bren’s dagger from his cheek, and she gripped his hair in one hand, forcing his head back so his throat was fully exposed.
“You fucking barbarian,” she said clearly, before she spat in his face and opened his artery. Then she dropped his head, wiped her blade on the grass and looked up.
Chapter Thirty-One
Relief that she was safe and fury that she had antagonized a man who’d held her life in his hands, flooded his mind in a jumbled torrent. Faint bruising still marred her face, traces of blood streaked her nose, her mouth, her jaw and her throat, her hands were bloodied and engrained with dirt, and she was the bravest, most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Were you trying to get yourself killed?” His voice was harsh, and to stop himself from shaking sense into her he swiftly retrieved his dagger to occupy his free hand.
“I had no intention of being killed.” Disdain dripped from every word, as if his concern was beneath her.
He straightened and glared at her for her foolish pride. “You mocked his masculinity and you think he wasn’t this close to murdering you?”
“That’s right.” As she rose to her feet, as regal as a queen, her dark eyes flashed and breasts heaved, as if she was having trouble filling her lungs. Blood surged and his cock responded and he clenched the hilts of his sword and dagger until his knuckles ached. “He was so insulted, his attention wavered.” Her breath hissed between her teeth. “I had no need for you to rescue me, Gaul.”
He glanced at the body of Trogus. Dark blood soaked the earth and pumped from his opened throat. “Would you rather I stood by and watch him maul you?”
Morwyn thrust the tip of her dagger to the lifeless body. “That’s what happens to those who maul me.”
The stench of foul blood and the pungent aroma of clean earth thudded in the air, mingling with the scent of arousal and denial. He sheathed his sword, flexed his fingers and gripped his dagger as though he faced his deadliest enemy.
She continued to glare at him, as if the feeling was mutual, her dagger no longer pointing at Trogus.
Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2) Page 27