“Surrender to the might of the Eagle,” he said in the ancient Celtic language of her people. His voice was deep, sensuous, and dark embers stirred as if she faced a brave warrior of Cymru instead of a cowardly barbarian of Rome. “And you shall remain unharmed.”
Her palm was sweaty around her dagger and she tightened her grip before it slipped from her grasp. She might not have a chance against this Roman but she would never surrender to him. And she would never willingly give up her weapons, either.
“I would sooner die fighting you,” she said in Latin, just to show him she was no ignorant native of a fractured land. Her mother had taught her the language well. “Than surrender my freedom to your filthy Emperor.”
She had no freedom under Rome. As soon as they discovered she was a Druid, her life would be forfeit. Crucifixion was terrifying enough, but it was the torture she would doubtless endure beforehand that shriveled her soul.
His black stallion whickered and pawed the ground, but the Roman didn’t break eye contact nor did his sword waver.
“Brave words, little Celt.” Still he spoke in her language, and disbelief unfurled through her breast at the tone of his voice. Did he find her challenge amusing? “But I don’t fight women.”
She ignored the threat of his sword and stepped forward, her dagger on clear display. He had no right to enter her land and then mock her prowess as a warrior. Just because she didn’t possess the brute strength of a full-grown male didn’t mean she lacked dexterity or speed. She glared up at him, wishing, obscurely, she could see the color of his eyes.
“Why? Are you afraid I may unman you?” Why was she trying to raise his ire? Wouldn’t it make more sense to beg for freedom? Pretend to be a mere peasant, caught up in this revolt? Perhaps, then, he would allow her to escape without persecution?
Even as the thought teased her mind, she knew the silver bracelets on her wrists, the torque at her throat and jewels in her ears plainly branded her as anything but a peasant.
For one brief moment the corner of his lips quirked. Clearly he found her not only amusing, but highly entertaining.
“I believe I’m more than man enough for you, Celt.” His voice was a seductive caress along the naked flesh of her arms.
What little breath she retained in her lungs evaporated, scorched by the heat his words ignited in her blood. The danger of his sword, the reality of her dagger, faded, insubstantial as a distant dream. All she could see was this Roman as he looked down his aristocratic nose at her, as though she were a delectable slave he wanted to purchase.
She failed to summon righteous fury at such a thought. She didn’t have the strength. Because she needed all her wits to fight the overpowering urge to drag him from his horse and discover for herself whether he was man enough for her.
Goddess, what was she thinking? She tightened her grip on her dagger and stood her ground by sheer force of her Druidic will. He was a Roman. She would rather die here, impaled on his sword, than give in to such despicable desire.
For one sizzling moment, she imagined him impaling her, but it was not with his sword and it was not through her heart.
The ugly truth shamed the depths of her being, but it was the truth nevertheless. She wanted him.
She would cut out her tongue before she ever admitted such to another living soul.
“I believe I would need to be dead before you ever had the chance to find out.” Her voice was husky, seductive, and the tightening of his jaw told her that, despite her resolve, she had failed to hide her illicit interest.
He didn’t lean toward her. He was too proud, too sure of his own superiority and yet he filled her vision. As if nothing else on this mountain existed, and everything beyond was nothing but a bloodied nightmare.
“There would be little fun to be had if you were dead.”
Her mouth dried, pulses hammered. It was inconceivable, unbelievable, but this Roman barbarian was flirting with her. He behaved as though they had met by chance in a marketplace, and not on the edges of a devastating battlefield.
A vague thought fluttered through the outer reaches of her mind. Why did he not attempt to disarm her? One thrust of his sword would end this confrontation. Yet still she couldn’t back away from the danger. Still she couldn’t drag her mesmerized gaze from his compelling face.
She fought the primitive need spiraling through her treacherous body.
“I didn’t think Romans were so fastidious.” Why did she continue this conversation? Was she truly so desperate to hear his voice once again?
“This Roman,” his voice dropped lower, “prefers his women to possess a heartbeat. At the very least.” Unbearable. She struggled against the need to press her thighs together and rub her aching breasts against this cursed invader’s naked chest.
“And I prefer my men to possess a heart, at the very least.” The words were out before she could stop them. As though she conversed with an equal, one worthy of her time. One worthy of her desire.
She scarcely managed to prevent squirming with shame. Except it wasn’t shame that quivered through her breast or thundered against her skull. It was pure, unbridled lust.
“I possess a heart,” he said. “As you will very soon discover when you lay naked in my arms.” There was no mistake this time. He was mocking her. Yet she remained rooted to the ground, held by an invisible enchantment. And then he angled his body toward her. A slight movement, but a movement nevertheless. “All you have to do is surrender into my custody.”
She could throw her dagger at his throat. Except she knew she would never have time to aim the deadly thrust before he killed her with his sword. And what would become of the queen and princess then?
“Beware, Roman.” Far from sounding like a threat, she sounded as if she wished her words to caress. “Give me the slightest opportunity and I will carve your corrupt heart from your chest.”
“That sounds…” He paused, considering the matter. “Stimulating.”
Her own heart thudded against her ribs, as if it wished to make its own unorthodox escape from her chest. Her breath tangled in her throat and again the image of him impaling her with his foreign cock flooded her scalding senses.
She almost lost her tenuous grip on her dagger.
“I would never willingly share your bed.” But who was she trying to convince? This Roman? Or herself?
This time his lips curved into a smile of pure decadence. “I will greatly enjoy changing your mind, Celt.”
She tried to drag her gaze from his lips, but failed. How would they taste? How would they feel? When it came to pleasuring the flesh, how talented with his mouth was this arrogant invader?
“Then you are destined for grave disappointment.” But the response was hollow because it was she who was destined for disappointment. The knowledge disgusted her as much as it confused her. How could she want a Roman? She had despised their race her entire life. She always would. This heat in her blood was nothing more than the aftereffects from the battle. It had nothing to do with the man who looked at her as if he’d like to strip her naked and intimately examine every flushed particle of flesh she possessed.
“I don’t intend to be disappointed in this matter.” He leaned a little farther over his horse, and yet still his sword did not waver. One false move and he could cut her down in an instant. “You will share my bed, and you will enjoy every mindless, ecstatic orgasm I claim from your writhing body.”
Her chest contracted, as if he had reached inside her and squeezed the air from her lungs. His words conjured up a vision so intense, so vivid, she could feel his hands on her body. Could feel the tension screaming through her blood. Could see, on the edges of her sanity, dark fulfillment that would curse her soul forevermore.
She raised her arm, her dagger a poor defense against his Roman weapon. She didn’t know what she intended. But in that instant as he looked at her, she saw the color of his eyes. A strange shade of blue, violet, unusual… entrancing. Before she could fully comprehend wh
y she was moving toward him, a blinding pain wrenched through her shoulder, catapulting her backward to the ground. In that fleeting moment, as incomprehension weaved through her stunned senses, she saw the arrow embedded in her shoulder before her head cracked against something hard and the world turned black.
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Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2) Page 32