Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2)

by Christina Phillips

  He gave a sharp indrawn breath. “You would do that—for Eryn?”

  “You have royal blood. She was your wife. She deserves nothing less.”

  “Gods.” The word tangled in her hair and his warrior hard body shook as emotion ripped through him.

  Had she ever loved him as much as she loved him in this moment?

  She blinked back the dampness stinging her eyes. “If it doesn’t offend, I also wish to attend the restless spirit of the . . . other girl.”

  He didn’t answer. But the jerk of his head in assent was answer enough.

  With a shaky sigh she sank against him. She would call on her foremothers for guidance and strength. Invoke the ancient rituals, ease the troubled spirits of Eryn and the girl, not only because she was a Druid of the Morrigan and it was her sacred duty.

  But because by so doing, she would soothe the wounded soul of her beloved Gaul.

  Epilogue

  Ten Months Later

  Gaul

  “By the goddess, Gaul, say something.” Morwyn shook her head and then laughed before she once again returned her attention to the tiny scrap cradled in her arms.

  Bren glanced at Gwyn, who sat on his hip with one arm hooked around his neck. She also appeared transfixed.

  “I fear words fail me.” Gingerly he sat beside Morwyn on the bed, once again gazing at the bundle she cradled so tenderly. His son.

  “Because you’re awed by my cleverness in birthing such a perfect babe.”

  “Yes.”

  Morwyn looked up at him, sweaty hair streaking her face, remnants of the severity of her labor etched around her eyes. Faint scars from Trogus’ dagger traced her nose, and her forehead was forever marked with the claw of the sacred raven.

  She was beautiful. Brave. And his.

  “He is perfect,” she whispered. “Because he’s yours.”

  A year ago, he had nothing but a blood pledge to his king and bittersweet memories to keep him alive. Now he had everything. A wife whose strength of will would never ceased to astound him, a daughter he adored and a newborn son.

  Was this was why the gods had kept him alive?

  He tugged Gwyn’s braid. “What do you think of your brother, princess?”

  She reached out one tentative hand and he angled her over the babe, so she could trace her finger over his dark thatch of hair. “Soft.” Her tone was reverential. She glanced up at Morwyn and her plump lower lip trembled. “Safe.”

  One arm around Gwyn, he slid his other around his wife and she melted against him. So deceptively soft and fragile a man could be forgiven for thinking she needed protecting.

  But she was a warrior, a Druid of ancient stock. As willing and able as he to defend herself and their family against the enemy.

  Yet she was and would forever be his vulnerability.

  He’d have it no other way. She had dragged him back from the precipice, demanded that he open his eyes and his heart, and in return she had given him a new world.

  Beloved.

  ***

  Thank you for reading Captive. I hope you enjoyed it!

  If you would like to know when my next book is available you can sign up for my New Release Notification at my website. You can also follow me on Twitter or like my Facebook page

  If you enjoy my books please consider leaving a review. This helps other readers find my books.

  There are four books in my hot historical romance series, The Druid Chronicles. If you’d like to read Chapter One from Enslaved, book 3 in The Druid Chronicles, please turn the page.

  Amazon Buy Links:

  Forbidden | Captive | Enslaved | Tainted

  Behind the scenes: 1st Century A.D.

  Forged in blood, United by Passion

  The Highland Warrior Chronicles

  Book 1 – Her Savage Scot

  When tough Scot warrior Connor MacKenzie rides into the barbaric lands of the Picts on a mission for his king, he never expects to be captivated by a beautiful Pictish widow. Drawn under her spell, yet unaware of her true identity, he risks everything for one passionate night in her arms.

  Aila, princess of Pictland, swore, after watching her husband die, that she would never marry again. But after meeting Connor, her frozen heart thaws and once again she imagines a future filled with love and passion.

  When Connor delivers the message from his king, Aila becomes a pawn in a deadly game of politics. Her heart belongs to Connor, but she must marry the prince of Dal Riada – Connor’s half-brother. But the fates have other plans for the star-crossed lovers as they fight their enemies and themselves to find true love.

  About the Author

  Christina Phillips is an ex-pat Brit who now lives in sunny Western Australia with her high school sweetheart and their family. She enjoys writing paranormal, historical and contemporary romance where the stories sizzle and the heroine brings her hero to his knees.

  She is addicted to good coffee, expensive chocolate and bad boy heroes. She is also owned by three gorgeous cats who are convinced the universe revolves around their needs. They are not wrong.

  Author’s Note

  In Captive I’ve woven historical fact into my fantasy world. Caratacus was king of the Catuvellauni tribe, in the east of Britain, at the time of the Roman invasion in AD 43. He became leader of the anti-Roman campaign and eventually moved west into the mountainous region of Cymru, where he and his rebels continued to resist the invaders.

  During the first century AD, the languages used in Britain were Brythonic by the native tribal peoples and Latin by the Roman invaders. In The Druid Chronicles I’ve used words not in common usage in the English language until the 1500s and later, on the reasoning these peoples had words of similar meaning in their own languages at that time.

  Enslaved

  The Druid Chronicles, Book 3

  When a Druid priestess falls for her Roman captor she’s torn between her duty to her goddess and her love for the enemy…

  When Druid priestess Nimue is injured and enslaved by the hated Roman Legion she’s determined to escape and complete her covert mission for her beloved goddess, to eradicate the invaders from her land.

  But the tough warrior who captures her is far from the brutal barbarian she expects. Instead, Tacitus turns all her prejudices inside out, and it’s hard to remember he’s her enemy when she craves his touch more than her next breath. Her first loyalty is to her goddess, and she can’t afford to forget it.

  Tacitus is enchanted by the fiery beauty who shows no fear and challenges him at every turn. Though enslaving her goes against his heart, it’s the only way he can protect her. As a fragile trust grows between them, he believes they can have a future together. But when he discovers the depth of her betrayal, his loyalties are torn between his heritage and a woman who could destroy everything he’s ever believed in.

  ***

  Chapter One

  Cymru, AD 51

  “I’ll find your daughter.” Nimue unsheathed her dagger and glanced over to Caratacus, where he stood glaring at his warriors. It was obvious the Briton king wanted to stay and fight the barbarous Romans, yet equally clear if he did, he would be captured. “Where are you heading?”

  “The land of the Brigantes,” one of the warriors said. Nimue gave a brief nod, turned and ran farther into the mountain, to where she had last seen Caratacus’ queen and daughter.

  She knew of the land of the Brigantes, even if she had never been there. It was in the north, one of the few places left in Britain that had not succumbed to Roman rule.

  Will my beloved Cymru succumb, now that the rebellion has failed?

  She wouldn’t think of it. Couldn’t think of it. The notion of Romans swarming over her land chilled her blood and sickened her stomach. She tightened her grip on her dagger, crouched low behind concealing rocks and sent desperate prayers to her Goddess, Arianrhod.

  Let me find the Briton queen before the enemy does.

  Battle cries split the blood-drenched air, the clash o
f sword and shield echoed through the mountain passes and the earth vibrated with the relentless march of the Legions. Nimue pushed back her sweaty hair and glanced over her shoulder. For the moment, she was alone. She leaped to her feet, sprinted across the trampled grass to the small stand of trees where, beyond, she hoped the queen remained along with other non-fighting women in the secluded hollow.

  “Choice is yours.” The coarse Latin accent punched through Nimue’s senses and she froze. She was too late. The Romans had discovered the hiding place. “You or your daughter.”

  Heart thudding high in her breast, Nimue edged toward the source of the voice. If there were only one or two legionaries, she might stand a chance. The queen was no warrior and the princess scarcely more than a child, but Nimue’s aim with the arrow was unerring. Stealthily she sheathed her dagger and primed her bow. The trees thinned and relief scudded through her blood.

  Only one filthy legionary loomed over the queen who shielded her terrified daughter with her body. As the legionary shoved the queen to the ground and prepared to mount her, Nimue let fly with her arrow and bared her teeth in satisfaction as the poisoned tip ripped into the heathen’s vulnerable neck.

  His strangled scream ended with a gurgle before she even reached the queen’s side. There was no sign of the other women. Clearly they had fled as the battle approached.

  “Where is the king?” The queen pushed herself to her feet and wound her arm around the princess. “We were about to follow the others farther up the mountain when that dog accosted us.”

  Thank the Goddess they hadn’t left this hollow. Nimue would never have found them otherwise.

  “I’m to take you to your king.” She slung her bow over her shoulder and glanced around to ensure they were still alone. But they would not be alone for much longer. “If we make haste we might catch up with them before they leave the mountain.”

  “Is the battle over?” The princess, barely twelve summers old, looked at the fallen legionary and shivered.

  Nimue reined in her raging impatience to leave this cursed mountain and turned to the girl to offer what comfort she could.

  “No. The battle will never be over. Always remember that.”

  “The Druid speaks the truth.” The queen smoothed her daughter’s tangled hair back from her face. “Be brave for a little longer. When we rest, she can tend your wound.”

  Her wound? Only then did Nimue see the bloodied cloth tied around the girl’s calf and another wave of impatience rolled through her. If only she possessed a sturdier frame, instead of the slender build she had inherited from her mother. While she was fast and agile on her feet and trained brutally to strengthen her muscles, she knew the princess was too big for her to carry any distance. She hoped the injury wouldn’t slow them down.

  “We don’t have time to rest.” Her voice was harsh, in an effort to convey how grave the situation was. “Come quickly, before the barbarians smother this mountain.”

  Without waiting for a response, or to see if her blunt words caused offense—they were not, after all, her queen or princess—she turned and led the way back through the trees. To her right, farther down the mountain, she saw the Romans’ continued advance. No longer did they hold their shields over them in an impenetrable shell. There was no need. No Celt archers remained behind to rain death on their heads.

  There was no time for sorrow, but still the acidic pain clenched deep inside. As she gestured for the queen and princess to crouch low and follow her, she recalled how certain she had been of her people’s victory.

  This battle should have been decisive. It should have crushed the enemy underfoot. Caratacus had persuaded them with his vision of triumph to leave the safety of their magical enclave and follow him to this quagmire of devastation.

  They should never have left the enclave. They should have stayed and continued with the isolated attacks on the Legions. And she could have continued to unravel the mystery of the Source of Annwyn. The power the great High Druid, Aeron, had harnessed from the cradle of the gods themselves with the help of Gwydion, the greatest of the Magician Gods. The magic Aeron had used, through the sacred bluestones, to conceal his clan of Druids from the invaders.

  She ignored the labored breathing of the princess and the hushed encouragement of the queen to continue onward. Of course they had to continue onward. Just as she would continue onward with her quest.

  Her fingers instinctively curled around the small leather pouch attached to her belt. After Aeron’s heroic death, the immense bluestones that had protected his clan had shattered, catapulting precious shards across Cymru. From those shards, a second enclave had been created, a safe haven for the rebels in the midst of their enemy. And just before they had left their retreat, she’d stolen one of the shards and hidden it in her pouch.

  This defeat would not deter her. The shards of bluestone had protected and hidden the rebels from the Romans sight, but they were a faint echo of the original magic. Not even the wisest of the Druids had been able to comprehend how it worked. Only that it did. But she would discover how Aeron had manipulated the Source to his will. When she completed her mission, she would return to the enclave and pursue the sacred knowledge. Gwydion would not assist her, a lowly acolyte. But, as mighty as he was, he was not the greatest of the gods. Her beloved Arianrhod, the powerful Moon Goddess, surpassed him in wisdom and knowledge. And Arianrhod would assist Nimue so she could follow Aeron’s lead, and eliminate all Romans from the land of her foremothers.

  She heard a stumble from behind her, a pained gasp, and then the queen gripped her shoulder and forced her to turn around.

  “Druid, we must rest. My daughter is unable to travel any farther.”

  One glance at the princess confirmed the queen’s words. The girl was pale, sweaty and biting her lip in an effort not to make any sound of discomfort.

  Nimue again silently cursed the fact that she didn’t possess the brute warrior strength she craved. They would go no farther this day until she had treated the princess’ wound.

  “Quickly.” She gestured toward a rocky outcrop. The shallow crevasse it overhung could be easily concealed with the strategic repositioning of a couple of small bushes. As the queen helped her daughter inside, Nimue dragged over a couple of rocks and wedged greenery between them. The camouflage would withstand a cursory glance. She hoped.

  She crawled inside the makeshift shelter and made a quick examination of the gash on the princess’ leg. It looked clean enough but continued to seep blood. And the girl certainly needed something for the pain.

  What she really needed was to rest the leg, but since that was impossible, Nimue pulled her medicine bag over her head, dumped it on the ground and opened it. She could make a dressing for the wound to ensure it remained free of poison, and she could prepare a soothing tea with the last of her water to ease the pain.

  She took a calming breath. There was no use railing against fate. They would not catch up with Caratacus now so she might as well accept the fact she would be taking the queen and her daughter to the land of the Brigantes herself.

  “We will stay here until nightfall,” she told them. “The moon will guide our way.” She hadn’t anticipated an overnight journey but the wise Arianrhod, Goddess of the Moon and weaver of the fates, would ensure their safety.

  Swiftly, she prepared the pain-relieving tea. How shortsighted of her not to have filled her water skin before the battle began today.

  “I need to find a stream.”

  “You’re not leaving us?” The queen sounded incredulous.

  “I’ll be back directly.” Nimue glanced at the princess, to ensure she had finished the potion. At least now the girl’s discomfort would be dulled. She returned her attention to the queen. “Remain here. The Legions are advancing along another path.” At least that had been her impression when she’d seen them in the distance. Besides, Arianrhod wouldn’t have led them to this resting place if danger waited.

  Without waiting for further argument,
she unsheathed her dagger and cautiously left the shelter. Arianrhod was watching over her, but it was always wise to take precautions.

  ***

  Eventually, Nimue found a stream and as she filled the water skin, her dagger lying across her knees, she looked into the distance, where majestic mountains dominated the far horizon. No sound of battle reached her. No stink of blood or churned earth to give a hint of the devastation that she’d witnessed earlier.

  She breathed in great lungfuls of the fresh mountain air, as if it might somehow cleanse the horror of her people’s defeat from her soul. They would rise again. They would rid the enemy from their land. And they would—

  An eerie chill trickled along her spine, causing the hair to rise on the back of her neck and arms. She leaped to her feet, dagger once again in her hand. But it wasn’t a lone legionary who had caught her so unawares. It was a mounted Roman officer, in a flowing scarlet cloak, with his shield in one hand and sword in the other.

  For a moment, all she could feel was the erratic thud of her heart in her ears, the uneven gasp of her breath in her throat. The sun dazzled her, glinting off the polished metal of his armor as he stared down at her, and obscurely, she noted his impressive biceps, his muscles flexing as he urged his horse forward.

  Flee. The command whispered in her mind, faint and insubstantial. The treacherous rocks on her right, the fast flowing stream at her back and the steep bank on the far side didn’t offer her a speedy escape. But somehow, she had to lead him farther away from the queen and princess. Except he had effectively trapped her by the edge of the stream.

  Yet even as the weight of her responsibility tormented her conscience, she couldn’t drag her fascinated gaze from the Roman. His face was hard, autocratic, unsmiling. The face of countless Romans, and yet like none she had ever seen before. His eyes were narrowed, his strong jaw shadowed. And the tip of his sword was a mere arm’s length from her face.