Forbidden

by Christina Phillips

  “I’d rather not.” There was great feeling in those words.

  The Legatus laughed, as if Maximus had shared a great joke. “Most of us would rather not, boy. But the might of the Empire must flourish, and for that we need wives.”

  Maximus grunted. His Celt had made it very plain she wouldn’t share. Even now her vehemence had the power to stun. He’d never come across such passion from a woman before. A part of him couldn’t help thinking a lady of noble birth—there was no doubt his Celt was of noble birth—shouldn’t even consider such violence, let alone display it.

  But another part of him—the greater part—secretly basked in the knowledge she possessed the capacity to feel so strongly.

  “So long as you’re discreet, there is no need to give up your mistress.”

  “I don’t—” Maximus sucked in a breath and struggled not to scowl at the Legatus. This was what happened when commanding officers also happened to be relatives. They presumed.

  For most of his military career he’d been unencumbered by such familiarity. It was only after being transferred and promoted to the rank of Primus almost a year ago, directly under the command of his father’s second cousin, that he’d confronted such interference and tasted the accompanying nepotism firsthand.

  Tasted, and rebelled. The same way he’d rebelled at eighteen and enlisted as a bottom-rung centurion, instead of allowing his family connections to acquire him a tribune office, as his father’s consul rank demanded.

  The commander laughed. “Deny it if you wish, Maximus. But it’s your duty to produce legitimate heirs, and for that need you need an advantageous marriage.” He shrugged. “Happens to us all. And you may strike lucky and be given a wife you learn to care for. Just don’t allow her to feel threatened by any mistress. That’s all.”

  Carys wrapped her arms around her knees and watched her last patient leave the Cauldron. Only two had visited this morn. One woman had come for her sister, whose pregnancy was causing her great sickness. And the other because she feared pregnancy and wanted to ensure such catastrophe wouldn’t come to pass.

  Carys hadn’t probed, but received the impression the potential father wasn’t the woman’s husband but a Roman.

  As she prepared the necessary concoction, and gave the distraught woman detailed instructions, her mind nibbled incessantly at her own fertility potential.

  Why had she tipped the cleansing tea into the ground this morn?

  Maximus was virile. There was no doubt of that. Even now his seed could be implanting within her, drawing her blood to his, creating the first spark of new life.

  And instead of filling her with horror, the thought filled her with a strange, dreadful delight.

  If she was destined to have a child, then she wanted it to be her Roman’s. It would be something to remember him by, as if she would need reminding, when the time came for them to part.

  Carys knew that time would come. Even if the Morrigan had tacitly bestowed her approval upon the liaison, there was no future for them together. How could there be when he was a Roman and she not merely a Celt, but a Druid?

  Yet the raven had touched her with its prophetic eye, and in that moment of clarity she had seen new life spring from the carnage of war.

  A warm, soothing ribbon of peace fluttered through her heart, settling her soul. She worshipped the wise Cerridwen; she believed in the truth of the raven’s foresight and, suddenly, despite every obstacle between her and Maximus, she had a certainty that, somehow, their destinies were inextricably entwined.

  And the only way that could possibly be was if she conceived his child.

  Carys slipped through the narrow entrance between two massive oaks that marked the single passage into the sacred spiral. The wave of vertigo shimmered through her mind, as always, but vanished within a heartbeat.

  She leaned against a tree, shaded from the sun, and flexed her injured hand. There were a multitude of pain inhibitors she could take, but she would take nothing that might disrupt her body’s rhythm and potentially dislodge Maximus’s seed.

  “Carys?” The whisper floated in the air and she swung round to see Morwyn, followed by Gawain leading two horses, emerge from deeper within the forest, both wearing dull, ragged cloaks over their richly decorated garments.

  “Are you going to the settlement?” It was an open secret that over the last few moons—since the Druids had realized their flight wasn’t transitional, that they weren’t making active plans to launch a covert assault on the occupying forces—more and more had begun to slip down to the settlement and assist their people in more unobtrusive ways.

  And for all his power, Aeron never appeared to see what was happening in front of his eyes. Sometimes Carys wondered whether he even knew many of the hamlets and villages were now dead and abandoned, their occupants having discovered more opportunities awaited them around the Roman fortification.

  Morwyn gave a brief nod, and then gave her a speculative look. “Why don’t you come with us?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Carys didn’t bother to hide her surprise at being asked. No one had ever asked her before, and it wasn’t because they all knew Aeron considered her his private property and as such should never set foot outside the spiral’s boundary.

  “With these eyes?” She raised her brows in disbelief. No one ever forgot her mismatched eyes. And when Druids mingled so close to the enemy, the ability to blend into nothingness was essential.

  Morwyn waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Then keep your eyes lowered.” She nodded to the ancient blanket Carys held, which she used at the Cauldron for her patients to lie upon while being examined. “Use that to cover your head and gown.”

  Excitement surged through Carys, curling her stomach into knots, sending shivers along her limbs and tightening her nipples. While she visited the spring every morning, it had never seriously occurred to her to venture into the heart of the enemy’s lair.

  No female Druid went there alone. And no Druid had ever wanted Carys to accompany them before, in case she drew unwanted attention.

  But now, with both Morwyn and Gawain, there was no reason for her not to visit the settlement. To see the finished fortification with her own eyes.

  And to seek out Maximus on his invaded turf.

  Morwyn smirked. “Precisely, Carys. He won’t be expecting you, and you can discover whatever you wish if you confront him in his home environment.”

  Carys shot Gawain a sharp glance. Curse Morwyn and her big mouth. She had promised to keep silent about Carys’s secret lover.

  As if she could once again read Carys’s mind, Morwyn threaded her fingers through Gawain’s.

  “Gawain swears silence also, Carys. Don’t worry.”

  “It’s time you broke free of Aeron’s hold,” Gawain said. Three years older than Morwyn, he was a fully trained Druid. Had the Romans not invaded, he’d now be responsible for the training of young acolytes gifted in truth and judgment.

  Instead his future, like all their futures, had been suspended in time within this sacred spiral. Forbidden to fight for their people’s freedom, and denied the freedom to settle claims of injustice.

  Gawain, Carys knew, had been one of the first Druids to defy Aeron’s edict of total isolation from their people.

  She could trust him.

  They took the hidden paths from the spiral, careful to leave no obvious trail that a sharp-eyed scout might discover, and wonder about, when such trail apparently led nowhere.

  Carys sucked in a shocked breath as the fortification finally came within sight. It was so much larger than she had imagined. Solid. Impenetrable. Made of stone as if the Romans intended never to leave, and positioned so warriors stationed in the turrets had an uninterrupted view across the countryside.

  “It’s as if they’ve been here for years.” Awe threaded her tone.

  “They don’t waste any time.” Gawain, astride the other horse behind Morwyn, sounded grim. “And the longer they remain, the deeper t
heir poison sinks into the minds of our people.”

  Carys couldn’t argue with that. She noticed how her patients had dwindled over the last two or three moons. As if they were receiving medical advice elsewhere.

  Only the women hadn’t completely deserted her. Many still came when they were in need of another woman’s wisdom.

  Some distance from the settlement, they dismounted. The proud beauty of their horses disguised beneath layers of mud and debris, they led them into the town.

  Because it was a town. Carys had expected makeshift slums consisting entirely of ragged tents, but instead there were also many stone and timber dwellings, and more people crowded in one area than she had ever seen in her life before.

  Morwyn grasped her arm and pulled her to a halt. “Hide your jewelry and dagger. Don’t give any reason for the Roman bastards to glance twice in your direction.”

  Carys slid the earrings from her lobes, the bracelets from her wrists and the golden torque from her throat, and along with her distinctive Druid dagger buried them deep within her medicine bag.

  Gawain took the reins from her. “Your blanket is slipping.” He nodded to her head, and she hastily straightened the material as he thrust a stick into the ground and measured lengths of the shadow. “We’ll meet here.” He scrawled a line in the ground across the shadow, indicating how long before they left the settlement.

  That gave her plenty of time to explore. And while she might not find Maximus—since he was probably inside his fortification—at least she could learn more firsthand about how the Romans lived and how they treated her people, instead of relying on gossip and Aeron’s bitter diatribes.

  Morwyn took her hand, pulled her close. “I have newborns to bless, Carys.” Although she was but twenty-seven and not yet fully trained, Morwyn was the Druid closest to the Morrigan whom their people could now access.

  Carys glanced around. “I’ll be at the market.” It had been so long since she’d wandered through markets. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed such a simple pleasure.

  Morwyn’s grip tightened and Carys raised her eyebrows.

  “Carys, you’re not here to wander through the market.” Morwyn sounded exasperated. “Go find your lover. With him you’ll be safe. But whatever you do, don’t allow yourself to be accosted by any of the Roman scum.”

  “I’ve no intention of allowing myself to be so accosted.”

  Morwyn gave an impatient sigh. “Just stay away from them. The barbarians won’t think twice about abusing you.”

  “Even with this revolting blanket over my head and keeping my eyes to the ground?” When Morwyn began to scowl Carys patted her arm. “Very well. I promise not to go to that market.”

  Because she had noticed something of far more interest. The heavy gates to the fortification, which she could see even from this distance due to its elevated position, were open.

  And both civilians and military walked freely between those gates.

  Gripping the blanket beneath her chin, heart pounding with a combination of exhilaration and terror, Carys entered the fortification. The path she trod was smooth, flat and unbelievably wide, and disappeared deep into the enemy camp.

  And yet how could this be called a camp? It was another town. A walled town with the famed Roman roads, stone buildings lining each side and a public market where both her people and soldiers thronged.

  She sucked in a deep breath. A tangled sensory overload assaulted her, confined animals and compressed humans intermingled with the foreign scent of an occupying army.

  Belatedly she remembered she was supposed to remain inconspicuous. Standing in the middle of the road, with her head tilted to the sky and sniffing the intoxicating odors around her, was hardly the best way to achieve such an end.

  That was when she became aware of the three young Roman men leering at her. She hurriedly lowered her lashes and turned on her heel. Such modest behavior went against her nature, but she couldn’t risk drawing attention to herself. It would put all Druids at risk if soldiers arrested her within the perimeter of their stronghold.

  She decided to hide amid the crowd milling around the market. And then a rough hand pulled the blanket from her head.

  “Told you she was a fucking Venus, didn’t I?” The same rough hand gripped her arm and pulled her round.

  Her heart stuttered against her ribs at the contact, her breath compressed within her lungs, and her palms, clenched into fists as she grasped the blanket, felt eerily clammy.

  Don’t look up. The demand pounded through her mind and she stared fixedly at the man’s broad chest. So long as he didn’t see her strange eyes, he wouldn’t think her anything out of the ordinary. It was only her eyes that made her so memorable. All she had to do was keep her lids lowered, no matter what the provocation—

  “Look at that face.” Another one of them spoke, sounding faintly awed. “Like a Vestal Virgin.”

  The first one laughed and jerked her forward. Sweet Cerridwen, would no one intercept? She darted her glance to the people busy at the market, but no one appeared to be taking much notice.

  “I saw her first.” With that, he tore the blanket from her and tossed it aside. Dressed in her pale green gown with the intricate golden embroidery, she felt exposed. Naked. Vulnerable.

  “Fuck, I’m so hard I could take her right here on the street.” His coarse words appeared to amuse his friends, and sent an iced shiver of terror along Carys’s spine, freezing her churning stomach.

  She had been born into the chieftain class, where respect for her status was as natural as the air they all breathed.

  But not only was she a princess by virtue of her birth. She was also a powerful Druid in her own right, and she had never known a moment’s fear for her safety since to harm her was to dishonor Cerridwen herself.

  But that was before. When all she met worshipped their gods, abided by their laws and afforded her the regard to which she was entitled.

  “Come on, my beauty.” He finally spoke in Celtic and, with his free hand, groped her breast. Without thinking, she swiped it away, repugnance and fear skittering through her blood as she glanced wildly around for means of escape.

  The only enemy she had encountered since the invasion before today was Maximus. And even though she’d expected death at his hands, her soul hadn’t reacted with such primeval terror at his touch.

  The men laughed as if her resistance afforded them great entertainment.

  “Little cat showed her claws,” said the first one, his hard fingers biting into the top of her arm. “We don’t mean to hurt you. We just want a bit of fun.”

  “Unhand me.” She spoke in Celtic, but to her intense shame her voice trembled. And still she kept her lids lowered when every particle of her being wished to glare into this bastard’s face while she gutted him with her dagger.

  Her dagger that, instead of being sheathed at her hip, lay uselessly buried within her medicine bag.

  A fatal error on her part.

  Once free from the Legatus’s interrogation concerning his private life, Maximus strolled through the market. The transportation of goods was becoming less hazardous by the day, since the natives ceased their ambushes and the roads ensured swift access from the ports.

  He glanced at the goods on offer. Finally luxuries were arriving that would please the officers’ wives and daughters who made little secret of how much they hated being stuck in an outlying province of the Empire.

  The jewelry glittered. He paused. His wood nymph liked jewelry. Closer examination proved the stones were merely colored glass, but the gold was real.

  He picked up a delicate bracelet, scrutinized the workmanship. Imagined decking her in his family’s emeralds and pearls, priceless pieces that would fade into insignificance beside her ethereal beauty.

  But he didn’t have immediate access to them. And he wanted to buy his woman a present. Seeing matching earrings, he bought them as well, and as he secured his purchases, safely wrapp
ed in a pouch, onto his ornate belt, he wondered what Aquila would have made of it had he been around.

  As Maximus left the market to take the main road back to the barracks, his attention snagged on a group of loud-mouthed, jostling legionaries crowding around a girl. For a heartbeat he dismissed the scene, since it was a familiar occurrence. Girls were becoming more open to accepting attention from the soldiers now. It was always so. And yet something made him pause. Take a second look.

  Disbelief seared through his brain as he caught sight of the girl’s golden hair. Without conscious thought he swung on his heel and marched over, his conviction growing with every measured step.

  One of them swayed to the side and he saw her standing there, as silent as a statue of Venus. She was looking at the ground, as if the legionaries intimidated her.

  A cold black rage filled his mind, momentarily fogging his vision and stilling his stride. They would soon learn better than to even look at his woman, far less invade her personal space.

  Another picked up her length of braided hair and buried his nose in the unbound tresses. “Smells of nectar.”

  Maximus curled his fingers around his vine stick. Gods, did the dog know how close he was to losing that hand for daring to touch her?

  “I’ll wager her cunt tastes sweeter than any nectar,” said the third, and the rage surged from Maximus’s mind, chilling his arteries, swelling the cavity in his chest.

  He stepped beside her. She didn’t move a muscle, but the three legionaries drew back as one.

  “Sir,” said the one who’d manhandled her golden hair.

  He ignored the piece of shit, focused on the foul-mouthed cretin. Imagined ripping out his tongue and smashing his vocal cords for daring to so insult a lady.

  His lady.

  “Go.” His voice was even. Deadly. Two of the legionaries hastened to obey.

  The third began to grin. “Sir, we were just having some fun. The girl didn’t object; she was—”

  Maximus’s fist connected with flesh and bone and cartilage, and the legionary was on his knees with a bloodied nose before he had time to react.