Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2)

by Christina Phillips

  “Did he bring you here?” When? How? Trogus would have disarmed Morwyn at the earliest opportunity. But how else had she entered the enclave?

  Her lip curled in clear disgust. “I have no need for traitors or barbarians to bring me anywhere. You’re not the only one with secrets, Gaul.”

  Her warm breath grazed his face. Had he moved toward her? Or had she stepped toward him? He couldn’t remember, didn’t care. Danger pounded with every thud of his heart, hot and heavy and, gods, it felt good, right. As if only with Morwyn his senses became fully alive.

  Barely aware of his actions, he let his fingers trail along the proud angle of her jaw. Her skin was warm, silky. She didn’t jerk away, but loathing filled her eyes as if his touch repelled.

  Yet her breathing quickened and a blush heated her cheeks. It was clear she hated the way her body responded to his touch.

  “Secrets?” He should step back. Allow them both space to think, to breathe. But Morwyn didn’t move and neither did he, as if they were imprisoned within the deceptive beauty of amber.

  “Oh, yes.” The tip of her dagger pressed against his heart. He could feel it like a brand against his skin, even through the chain mail he wore. “This Sacred Spiral that hides so much is a cursed legacy from my High Druid.”

  For a moment he didn’t understand the significance of her words, why she sounded so bitter. And then fragments of reality intruded: the rumored source of this magical enclave, the holy martyr who had died while attempting to cleanse the land of the invaders.

  “You were from his village?” No wonder she hated the Romans so.

  She bared her teeth in a mockery of the smile he had thought never to see again.

  “His village? He owned nothing. Not me, none of my compatriots.” Her blade slid against his chest, as delicate as a lover’s caress. “I’m a Druid, Gaul.”

  His fingers stilled against her face. A Druid. No shock ricocheted through his blood; no disgust hammered through his brain. He’d always known she was more than a trader, had guessed she possessed noble blood. In a buried corner of his soul, he had always suspected the truth.

  Her pride. Her fearlessness. The cut of her gown, the quality of her jewelry. And then he was catapulted back to that night when he’d told her of Eryn, when she had whispered strange words of comfort. Only now did he recall they were the same words the Druids, who had feverishly worked to save his life six years ago, had intoned over his broken body.

  How had he, for even a moment, imagined she had been a slave?

  Gods. The woman in the forum. Morwyn’s lifelong friend. The wife of the tribune. No wonder that strange, haunted expression had flickered over her face when he’d told her of the rumors surrounding the tribune’s wife. Had she imagined he intended to betray her friend’s secret to his superiors?

  “Yes.” The word was a hiss. Her free hand gripped his forearm, as if she would drive his dagger through her heart. “One of the despised Druids. What do you think of that?” She sounded triumphant, despairing, as if she truly thought it made a difference to the way he felt.

  “I don’t care what you are.” His fingers tangled in the curling tendrils that escaped her braid. “You’re mine now.” Because there was no going back. Not for him to the garrison or for Morwyn to her previous life. Now that she knew he wasn’t her enemy, there was nothing to keep them apart.

  Her blade slipped beneath the layers of iron rings and pierced his flesh. He gritted his teeth and laid the flat of his blade against the tempting swell of her exposed flesh. She didn’t try to prevent him. Instead, her grip tightened around his arm, as if she wanted him to mar her skin, draw blood as she drew his.

  It would never happen.

  “I belong to no man.” Yet even as she spoke she swayed toward him and he hastily altered the angle of his dagger so she didn’t injure herself. “I’m not yours, and I never will be.”

  Her lips parted; her dark eyes invited. He scarcely comprehended her words as he lowered his head. “I don’t recall offering you the choice, Morwyn.”

  Warm, spiced breath tantalized his lips as she struggled to maintain some vestige of control. “I don’t fuck traitors.” The words lanced his lust-drenched senses and scorched his brain.

  “Traitor?” He pulled back, but only enough so he could scrutinize her face, to ensure she wasn’t indulging in some warped jest.

  She looked utterly serious. And utterly wretched. As if she believed she knew the truth.

  “Morwyn.” He softened his tone, cradled her face and attempted to remove his dagger from her breast. But she tightened her fingers around him, and since the last thing he wanted was a fight, he ceased resisting. “I’m not a traitor. These are my people. Not the Romans.”

  He half expected her to melt into his arms with joyful relief. But this was Morwyn. And Morwyn never did anything he expected. Even her expression of resigned misery didn’t alter. As if his words didn’t surprise her, but didn’t sway her either.

  “Bren.” The voice echoed through the forest and he bit back a curse as Morwyn immediately pulled back. With the history they shared, Judoc was the last person he wanted to see while he was trying to convince Morwyn of his loyalty.

  Judoc, blood kin on his mother’s side, a close aide to Caratacus and the only one left alive who knew the full depths of depravity to which Bren had sunk on that night three years ago.

  “Fuck it, Bren.” Judoc glared at him. It was obvious he hadn’t seen Morwyn, who had retreated into the shade. He kept her in his peripheral vision. She wouldn’t escape him a second time. Not now, when he no longer needed to keep up the pretense of being Dunmacos.

  “What?” Bren’s impatience was clear in his voice and he tapped his dagger against his thigh in mounting irritation.

  “Caratacus—” Judoc’s glance fell upon Trogus’ body and his stance instantly stiffened into warrior mode. He whipped out his dagger and advanced, his eyes never leaving the figure by Bren’s feet.

  It was obvious to a half-wit the bastard was dead. And Judoc was far from witless. Bren gritted his teeth. It was clear an explanation was required. Perhaps then Judoc would leave and let Bren finish convincing Morwyn to take a chance on him.

  Judoc made an odd gagging sound, his eyes widened in stupefaction, and then he collapsed at Bren’s feet, one hand clutching his neck.

  For a moment Bren stared at the other man, his brain unable to process the evidence of his eyes. Then Morwyn grabbed Bren’s arm and tugged him until he tore his gaze from Judoc and looked at her.

  There was a wild look in her eyes and the blood and dirt that smeared her face gave her an exotically feral appearance. Her dagger was sheathed and in her free hand she held a slender reed.

  “Move.” Her voice was guttural and vibrated with terror. “Just go. What are you waiting for? He wouldn’t have come alone.”

  He glanced once again at Judoc. The other man’s hand had fallen from his neck and now Bren saw the small, deadly dart protruding from the flesh.

  “You poisoned him.” He heard the words fall from his tongue, but could make no sense of them. Why had she poisoned Judoc? He crouched and pulled the dart free, allowing blood to trickle over the clammy skin.

  She shoved him, hard. “What are you doing?” She glanced around, as if ensuring they were still alone. “You don’t have much time. You have to go, now.”

  Slowly he pushed himself to his feet. “I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you until you explain why you just tried to kill Judoc.”

  She bared her teeth as if she hated him. “So he wouldn’t kill you, you treacherous bastard.”

  The trees compressed, his vision darkened, and all he could see was Morwyn’s pale face and accusing eyes. And all he could hear was a recurring echo of her furious words.

  So he wouldn’t kill you.

  She had been prepared to kill his blood cousin—to save him.

  The breath staggered from his lungs, leaving him light-headed as if he’d overindulged with the ince
nses used by the Druids during his coming-of-age ceremony so long ago.

  “He wasn’t going to kill me.” But she hadn’t known that. She had thought he was in danger and had acted—instinctively.

  His guts clenched, agony twisted through with a rare, unimaginable ecstasy. Disbelief entwined with a fragile thread of hope.

  And awe melded with incredulity that anyone, least of all Morwyn, had been prepared to kill one of their own in order to save his worthless skin.

  “He saw the dead auxiliary. He drew his dagger. Of course he was going to kill you. He thought you’d just murdered their spy.”

  He needed to take her in his arms. Wanted to explain everything to her. But Judoc was dying. He once again crouched and felt his cousin’s pulse. It was slow, sluggish, but did not appear to be fading any further.

  “Trogus”—he jerked his head at the auxiliary—“was nothing. I’ve been Caratacus’ eyes and ears in the Roman Legions for the last three years.”

  She didn’t answer, but he saw her fingers tighten on the reed until her knuckles glowed white beneath the dirt. He lowered his head to Judoc and fastened his lips around the wound.

  “Don’t.” Her voice sounded oddly dull. “The poison won’t kill him. He’ll awaken naturally soon enough.”

  He sat back and spared his cousin a brief glance. He’d not left Bren’s side during the hunt for the murderers of Eryn. It was more than mere relief to know Morwyn, the woman who held his future in her hands, wouldn’t be responsible for ending Judoc’s life.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth, Morwyn.” He looked up at her. She hadn’t moved, still stared at him as if she had never seen him before. “Knowing my true identity could have endangered you.”

  The tip of her tongue flicked over her lips. “And what is your true identity?”

  There was nothing else he could do for Judoc and so he stood, his cousin lying between him and the woman he loved.

  “Brennus, son of the Chieftain Brennus of the Rhine and”—he hesitated for a heartbeat—“the Princess Olwina of the Catuvellauni tribe of old Camulodunon.”

  Her gaze flickered. He wondered if she recalled him telling her that he possessed a drop of noble blood. Even in that, he’d not told her the truth.

  Now he would hold back nothing. Except for one thing.

  “Caratacus is my mother’s cousin. I swore him a blood fealty. It’s the reason I followed Gervas that night.” Morwyn had guessed his intention. Gods, she’d assumed he had murdered the Gaul, yet still she’d remained by his side. Guilt haunted him, as he knew it would forever haunt him, at the knowledge he had knowingly risked his king’s safety by not killing a potential threat. And the reason why he had risked everything stood before him now, oblivious. He didn’t expect Morwyn to forgive him for what he’d intended that night, but he hoped, someday, she’d at least understand.

  “Yes.” Her voice was hoarse. “I understand the bonds of blood.”

  Of course she did. She’s a Druid. They were obsessed with preserving the purity of their bloodlines, the purity of the nobles they allegedly served. She might not like it, any more than he did, but she understood. And because of her heritage she considered there was nothing to forgive.

  “I’ve never been your enemy, Morwyn.”

  She swallowed, and for a moment he thought she was going to step toward him and take his offered hand. Instead a shudder rippled over her and she straightened, as if coming to a decision. But she didn’t speak, and silence stretched between them, a chasm he didn’t know how to breach. As the deathly hush invaded his heart, the marrow of his bones, she finally responded.

  “I know.”

  Breath hissed between his teeth. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it until that moment. Hadn’t acknowledged just how uncertain he’d been that she would accept his word. Accept the reason why he hadn’t told her the truth.

  That she would be willing to let them start again.

  He stepped over Judoc. With one dead auxiliary and one unconscious blood kin, the surroundings were hardly ideal. But what did that matter when he needed to reassure Morwyn her faith in him was justified? That her actions, while she still thought him her enemy, had touched him more profoundly than anything else he’d experienced?

  “I understand why you left me.” He stood before her, not touching, but drinking in the sight of her face, the fragrance of her hair. “But I would never have hurt you.” He hesitated, unsure, and then knew she deserved to hear. “Not even if Caratacus himself ordered me to.”

  Her bottom lip trembled, just once, before she tensed her jaw and jerked her head in a gesture of acceptance. “I’ve never been afraid that you’d hurt me, Ga—Brennus.”

  Gods, to hear his true name from her lips. It was sweeter than he’d even imagined.

  “And,” she said, raising her hand in a warning gesture and he stopped short. Not yet. She needed to clear her mind before they touched. Because when they touched he’d need more than a fleeting kiss, and there would be no need for words to convey how much she meant to him. “Gervas had nothing to do with why I left you.”

  He’d been so sure that was the reason. Why else? What could possibly have persuaded her to leave, when her recent actions all pointed to the astonishing fact she cared about him?

  “Then why did you leave?” He glanced at Trogus, but he no longer believed she had been abducted. Morwyn had left while the auxiliary had been surrounded by dozens of witnesses. She had gone of her own accord and he couldn’t fathom why.

  Her hand dropped to her side. She was close enough for him to feel her breath on his face but with every frantic beat of his heart he could feel her inexorable retreat.

  “For something that happened before I even met you.”

  Ice clutched his heart. It was impossible she could know. Words tangled in his throat, guilt strangled his air supply and all he could do was stare at her in rising disbelief.

  Again her bottom lip trembled and her eyes glittered as though tears shimmered in those dark, mysterious depths. “I want you to know that I don’t hate you.” Pain twisted through every word as if they tortured her as much as they did him. “I should. But I can’t. All I can do is . . . walk away. And ask you to never approach me again.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A part of Morwyn—a despicably large part of her—hoped the Gaul—Brennus—would charge after her as she left the blood-soaked scene. But he didn’t. He didn’t even ask her what she was talking about or demand she explain her accusation.

  His guilt had glowed for one soul-destroying moment in his beautiful, unforgettable green eyes.

  Biting hard into the soft flesh of her lip, she glared ahead as the trees shifted out of focus and the path became blurred. Yesterday morn, after waking from her vision, she had imagined it was impossible to feel any worse.

  Again, she had been wrong.

  Brennus, far from betraying his people, the Romans, had put his life at risk every moment he remained within the Legions. From the start his loyalty had been absolute to his king. To his kin.

  A useless tear slid down her cheek and she dashed it away, gritting her teeth as she approached the cromlech.

  In the beginning she’d called him a coward. Thought him a traitor. Despised him for his values and alleged allegiance.

  His courage and convictions in his cause put her to shame.

  More than anything she had ever wanted in her life before, she wanted to stand by his side. Offer him her love, her heart, her undying devotion.

  The specter of Gawain vibrated between them. She couldn’t desecrate the memory of Gawain by pledging her life to Brennus. And she couldn’t condemn Brennus, the most honorable man she had ever met, for killing Gawain.

  Brennus had had his reasons. Of that she had no doubt. And perhaps, one day, she’d discover those reasons. But for now it was all she could do to keep herself from sinking to the forest floor and allowing her shattered heart to consume her sanity.

  ***
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  They left the enclave that afternoon, the last of the Druids, the few remaining children, and a strong contingent of warriors to guard the king. Including Brennus.

  As they traveled through the green valleys, skirted the peaceful hills and forded the sparkling rivers of her beloved homeland, she caught sight of him more often than her heart could bear. Sometimes she imagined he watched her, also, but she never caught his eye. Even in this he honored her wishes and kept his distance.

  It crucified her to know that, deep inside, she’d hoped he would try to change her mind. That he would present her with an explanation so supremely justified for his actions it would somehow negate her blood pledge to her foremothers.

  Allow her the luxury of cleaving unto him, without the crippling guilt that was eating her alive every moment of every day.

  At night the visions worsened. The first night of their journey the vision had descended instantly, plunging her into the battle without any preliminary.

  This time Gawain had heard her frantic calls. Had turned to her. And as Brennus approached, dagger glinting, Gawain’s features had melted, twisted, morphed into Caratacus.

  And Brennus had stabbed his king in the back.

  The second night, fearful of repeating her embarrassing performance during which an Elder had been summoned to quiet her feverish terrors, she took a sleeping potion.

  And the nightmares flourished, in vivid hues of green and scarlet, the scents more pungent, the sounds of battle and death escalating. And this time Gawain murdered Caratacus.

  Drenched in sweat, she jerked awake, shivering as icy chills rattled over her bones. The Morrigan was trying to show her something, but all she could see was the two men she trusted with her life betraying every fundamental principle she believed in.

  Brennus would never betray his king. And Gawain—Gawain couldn’t stab anyone in the back because he was already continuing his journey.

  In the black of the night a tiny, vulnerable doubt flickered.

  Gawain was dead. Wasn’t he?

  ***

  On the second day they arrived at Caratacus’ destination. Steep mountains soared all around the valley and as they forded the treacherous river and led their horses up the nonexistent pathways of the highest peak, a dread certainty coalesced deep in Morwyn’s breast.