Forbidden

by Christina Phillips

  The tip of his finger trailed over her parted lips. “So tempting,” he ground out, still speaking in his native Latin as if her language somehow eluded him. “But it’s better we wait. Later I’ll have all the time I need to explore every beautiful curve of your perfect body.”

  She licked the tip of his finger. Salty. She caught him with her teeth and drew him into her mouth. She didn’t want later. She wanted now.

  He gave a ragged laugh and stroked her head, clasped her plait and let her braid slide along his palm. “That’s right, my little Celtic lady. Gods, you’ll milk me dry.” He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, as if she caused him pain. “We need to go. Now.” He spoke in Celtic and focused on her, eyes almost black with desire. And through the hot, swirling fog of arousal that clouded her reason, Carys suddenly understood.

  She jerked back, panting, and stared at him. He sighed heavily as if he had expected her to pull away.

  “You’re not my captive,” he said. “I want to offer you my protection. With me you’ll have everything you wish.”

  He was wrong. She wouldn’t have her freedom, no matter how much the Roman believed otherwise. “You want to offer me protection in exchange for”—she hesitated for a heartbeat, because saying the words out loud tarnished everything—“use of my body.”

  A pained frown crawled across his brow, as if he didn’t much care for her analysis. “I hope you might use my body also.”

  She wasn’t in the mood to play word games. “But I don’t require your protection, Roman. I offer you myself because I want to. Not because I need something from you in return.”

  “I didn’t mean to cause offense, my lady.” Still frowning, he reached out and brushed stray strands of hair from her heated cheek. “But if you’re going to be mine, then I want you where I can look after you.”

  Something deep inside her melted at his words. What would it be like to have a man such as this truly care for her? Look after her, in the way he so clearly meant?

  But she wasn’t a Roman woman who, rumor said, was incapable of making any decision for herself. Carys was not only a Celt. She was a Druid, and to willingly relinquish any of her power to another—let alone a man from the enemy—was unthinkable.

  She threaded her fingers through his as he gently cradled her face. His hand was large beneath hers, yet his touch was light as thistledown.

  “I can look after myself.”

  Something shifted in those mesmerizing blue eyes. “The scouts combed this entire area. They discovered no trace of habitation.” His fingers tightened, but not enough to cause discomfort. “Where are you living?” It was no idle question. It was a demand.

  Carys bowed only to the demands of her goddess.

  “You know I can’t tell you. I have my kin to protect against your wrath.” And how great his wrath would be, should he ever discover her truth. Even crucifixion was considered too easy a death for a Druid. Aeron had seen the Roman invaders decimate her people in visions, visions that had ultimately saved all their lives.

  The suspicion in his eyes faded, and his hand gentled once more. “Your kin is safe with me, lady. None of your blood could raise my wrath.” He paused for a heartbeat. “But they must surrender to the might of Rome. You know this.”

  She stretched up and once again stroked his short black hair. Back and forth. As if he was a harmless puppy. Entranced by the sensations skittering over her fingertips, and the mesmeric quality of his intense gaze, she offered him a wondering smile.

  “You know I can never surrender, Roman.”

  His calloused thumb caressed her cheek. “You, my lady, need only surrender to me.”

  Flame licked through her womb, caused the muscles in her damp channel to contract with need. She wanted to surrender to this exotic warrior. But she could never betray her people by accompanying him to his fortification.

  She caressed the curve of his ear. So strange for a man to have not even one piercing in his lobe. “And yet I remain here.”

  He cupped her nape once again and the warmth from his hand branded her. “You would defy me?” The words were threatening, and yet she didn’t feel threatened. She felt exhilarated.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t need your permission to take you, lady. How would you prevent me from carrying out my desire?” His grip became possessive and tension radiated from him, as if it were a living entity, coiled, ready to spring.

  “If all you want is a slave, then there’s nothing I can do to prevent it.” Sweet Cerridwen, she didn’t want to prevent him from carrying out his desire. Only his arrogant wish to enchain her. Her pulse throbbed erratically against his imprisoning hold, stirring her blood and heating her brain.

  Time suspended in a shimmering haze as she returned his unwavering gaze. No breeze stirred in the sacred glade, no call of bird, nor rustle of woodland creature.

  Her Roman was the only man in the world, and her future rested on his response.

  His hand slid around her throat, across her collarbone, and deliberately grazed the naked swells of her breasts. She gasped involuntarily, arching toward him, begging for more. But his hand dropped from her.

  “A slave?” His voice was deceptively calm, yet she could feel the hum of anger in his tone, as if her accusation offended his honor. “Is that the only way you would come with me, Celt?”

  She dragged in a lungful of air, tried to rein in her cantering lust. But her mind wanted release just as much as her body. “You could come to me.”

  Silence, so deep, so profound, it echoed in her bones and shattered through the stars. His eyes narrowed and brow creased, as if such a notion were astonishing, unbelievable.

  As if the thought of a centurion bowing to the wishes of a Celt were beyond comprehension.

  Eternity whispered with each frantic beat of her heart. And then he retreated one step. “You would meet with me illicitly?”

  Her breath tangled, constricting her throat. “Yes.” It was the only word she could manage. She hoped it would be enough. Already she had said too much, given him too much, and yet she couldn’t help herself.

  Surely she wasn’t a traitor if she never divulged who she truly was? Where her people hid?

  This was purely for her. To satisfy her dreams and fulfill her frustrated desires. Nothing more. There could never be anything more. The Roman would satisfy her craving for mutual orgasmic knowledge, and when they had both slated their lust she could quietly vanish within the sacred spiral.

  “Why?” His voice was hard, unyielding.

  “Because that is what I wish.”

  Incredulity washed over his features. Had he never been crossed before? “And I should acquiesce to this, simply because it’s what you wish?”

  Carys resisted the overwhelming urge thundering through her blood to reach out and touch his arm, or run her fingers through his irresistible hair once again. He had stepped back from her. It was up to him to make the first move forward.

  “Yes.” There was no other answer she could give.

  Another silence vibrated through the glade, scraping along every nerve she possessed. Once again his inscrutable warrior mask shielded his true emotions as he contemplated her, as if assessing her worth as a mere spoil of war.

  In his mind perhaps that was all she was.

  But deep in the fundamental essence of her being, Carys knew that wasn’t so. If it were, he would have taken her with him two days ago.

  “What would your family do to you, if they ever discovered you’d willingly fraternized with the enemy?”

  Startled by his question, she blinked at him in momentary confusion. Why would he care?

  And yet he had asked the question, the one question she’d avoided thinking herself. Because she knew how violently her kin would react to such betrayal.

  “They’ll never discover it.” She wouldn’t ask Cerridwen to make this Roman hers, but she would ask her goddess to help conceal the illicit liaison. Because that wasn’t being selfish. It was putt
ing her people’s safety first.

  Scorn whispered through her mind, but she turned from it. Her logic was sound. Her goddess would understand.

  The Roman’s blue eyes incinerated her, scorching the breath from her lungs. “But what,” he said in a deceptively calm way, “if they do?”

  Chapter Five

  Carys tried to block his question from her mind, but in a cascading flood, the images poured through.

  Cold terror gripped her, ice shivering through her veins, as she recalled the fate of a Druid who had been caught spying for one of the savage Briton kings.

  Nine years ago, the eleven-year-old Carys had only recently entered the sacred fold, but that didn’t prevent her from bearing witness to the traitor’s doom.

  Spiritual isolation from the immortals would have been punishment enough for any Druid, but an example had to be made. As the sun sank behind the hills at the end of that blood-soaked day, the severed head of the ritualistically mutilated Druid was sent to her worthless lover.

  But Carys wasn’t a spy. Such a fate could never be hers. And yet the fear of being denied communion with her beloved Cerridwen twisted her soul.

  “Answer me.” His command was low. When had he stepped toward her? Carys struggled to keep her emotions contained, the terror of that long-ago day and the turmoil she always felt whenever the Roman was near.

  She dragged in a deep breath, but instead of clearing her head with the fresh scents of the sacred glade, her lungs filled with the masculine essence of raw sexuality.

  “What they might do to me is nothing to what they would do if they believed I was your captive.” It was true. A captive Druid was inconceivable. If rescue failed, the Druids would go to war and blood would drench the valleys. And her blood would be first.

  “Do you think I fear a few barbarous Celts?” His tone was faintly mocking, but the hint of a smile touched his lips.

  “No.” Carys wondered if her Roman feared anything. “I fear.”

  His smile faded. A wood warbler’s haunting song shivered on the warm breeze. She saw his jaw tighten, his eyes narrow. “It would never be my intention to harm your kin, lady.”

  She understood what he was telling her. “I know.” If attacked, he would protect himself. She couldn’t blame him for that.

  But he didn’t know her kin were the spiritual core of this land and its people, the ones who had eluded his soldiers since their invasion of Cymru. If he knew that, his intention would be far more deadly toward her.

  The roughened pad of his forefinger grazed across the top of her breast, halting her thoughts, stalling her breath. His finger delved into her cleavage, and all the while his eyes remained locked with hers.

  “I accept your terms, my lady.” His finger slowly slid from her warm embrace, leaving her strangely chilled and bereft. And then his words settled in her mind, illuminating the darkness, eradicating the lingering tendrils of terror.

  Speech was beyond her capabilities. Instead she extended her right hand, and with only the merest hesitation, her Roman took it in his large, firm grasp. He raised her hand to his lips, without bowing his head toward her, and brushed a kiss across her fingers.

  “You will meet me here later?” It was more demand than request, but she nodded her acceptance. How could she do otherwise? Her mighty Roman warrior had agreed to her terms.

  Over her captured hand, his eyes smoldered. “There’s one question you haven’t asked of me, lady.” She heard the challenge in his tone, as if the fact somehow irked him.

  She tried to calm her racing pulses, her incoherent thoughts. There was a question she hadn’t asked, because she hadn’t thought he would respond.

  “Would you tell me if I did?” Her voice was breathless.

  “You’d have to ask me first. Then you’d find out.”

  She darted the tip of her tongue over dry lips, saw the way his eyes followed the movement before once again locking with hers. “What is your name, Roman?”

  The breath stilled in her chest as she awaited his reply. A part of her was convinced he wouldn’t reveal such a personal detail, simply because she refused to share hers. But another part of her, the illogical part, wanted to know his name. Wanted to savor it on her lips, wrap it around her mind and hold it close within her heart.

  His mouth twisted into an enchanting lopsided smile, and for one shimmering moment Carys forgot he was a Roman, the enemy of her people, and saw only a man who had haunted every moment of her life for the last three moons. A man she feared could, too easily, haunt the remainder of her existence if she wasn’t careful.

  “Tiberius.” He kissed one knuckle. “Valerius.” Kissed a second knuckle. “Maximus.” He turned her hand and drifted his lips across her open palm.

  “Tiberius.” The foreign name sounded strange on her tongue. He smiled once again, released her hand and stepped back.

  “Close friends call me Maximus, my lady.”

  And what did his lovers call him?

  The thought slithered through her mind. Strange, for until this moment she hadn’t considered he might have other lovers back at the settlement that she’d been told now surrounded the Roman fortification.

  And the thought grazed her senses, wounded her soul. Even though she knew she had no right to be so injured. What the Roman did—what Maximus did—when he wasn’t with her was none of her affair.

  “Then I shall call you Maximus.” She saw his eyes darken as she said his name, and banished her troublesome concerns. She would please Maximus so thoroughly this eve that he wouldn’t wish to fuck any other woman but her.

  “And I shall call you”—he paused for a telling heartbeat—“my lady.” And his firm, sensual lips twitched, as if he tried to prevent a smile.

  “Yes.” She was his lady. She would always be his lady, even after their paths diverged. But she wouldn’t think of that. Not now. Not when she had other, far more fascinating things to consider. Such as discovering before tonight the secrets of satisfying a man so thoroughly he would rather fry his eyes in boiling oil than look with lust upon another woman.

  “Meet me here at sunset.”

  Again it was a demand. From a man used to having his word accepted without question. But what did she have to question? She wanted this as much as he did. And sunset was the time she would have suggested herself.

  Had he thought to ask.

  “Very well.”

  Beneath her leather-clad feet the earth stirred and discordant vibrations shivered through her soul. Maximus’s soldiers grew impatient by his absence.

  She couldn’t explain how she knew such things, or why the wise Cerridwen had chosen her as her acolyte. She knew only that the two were intrinsically connected, and to ignore the signs of the earth was to ignore her beloved goddess herself.

  With a soft sigh she bent to retrieve Maximus’s helmet. It was heavier than she expected. She brushed her fingers through the proud plumage before handing it toward him.

  “My lady.” He inclined his head in thanks as he took his helmet. “Until tonight.” He paused, and gave her a searching look as if trying to see inside her mind and find her secrets. “Keep safe.” And then he turned and marched back into the shaded woods.

  Aeron bowed before the ancient Druid in the small oak grove at the outer edge of the sacred spiral’s protective perimeter. As always, he hoped she couldn’t see into his heart and discover the bubbling resentment that festered. But she never had before. He was a master of deception, and this Druid had no reason to suspect him of anything less than absolute devotion.

  “Aeron.” She held out her wrinkled hand, and he took it and kissed the fragile skin, even as his senses recoiled from the touch of her skeletal fingers. “My dearest child. Come, sit with me and tell me what you see.”

  He sat beside her on the moss-covered log that once, long ago, had been a mighty oak. It reminded him how all great things could fall, no matter how powerful or revered.

  The old woman by his side was the most powerful
and revered Druid in all Cymru. But her time was coming to an end. Aeron had seen her demise in a terrifying vision while still a child, a vision of such lucidity it had ensured his rapid elevation within the spiritual ranks.

  Yet even at the age of eight he had known better than to divulge the bloodied climax of that vision. The line between savior and murderer would have been too blurred to distinguish.

  “Druantia.” He extricated his fingers from her possessive hold under the pretext of clasping both hands around his hazel rod. “The situation beyond the sacred spiral grows more precarious by the day. Soon the invaders will have subdued all of Cymru in a fountain of blood.”

  Druantia didn’t answer and Aeron shot her a surreptitious glance from the corner of his eye. She often didn’t answer directly, a trait he found irritating when directed at him. He was no lowly acolyte. Nor even a highly respected Druid of distinction. His place in the hierarchy was second only to hers. As such, he deserved more respect from her.

  He deserved more respect from Carys.

  Her name scorched through his brain, temporarily obliterating the grove from his sight. Fucking Carys with her hypnotic eyes, hair spun from sunlight and impossibly independent nature.

  It was intolerable she continued to refuse him. Blood pounded against his temples, threatening his outward composure, and his hands gripped the holy hazel rod with compressed rage.

  He knew that soon she would submit. His visions foretold such sweet victory, and in such visceral detail, his cock thickened with anticipation even now.

  “And yet we will survive, Aeron.” Druantia’s voice, as fragile as a decaying autumn leaf, invaded his personal world.

  Curse the hag for still clinging to this life. By rights he should possess her coveted position, for his power deserved nothing less.

  Just as he deserved Carys. And he would possess both.

  “We will always prevail.” He bowed his head. Yes. They would prevail, for he would never allow their beliefs to die at the hands of the heathen invaders. But they would survive on his terms. And there was no place in his new world for decrepit old women and their ancient goddesses.