Forbidden

by Christina Phillips

The thoughts churned his mind as he marched through the main street, barely acknowledging the way legionaries went out of their way to avoid him.

  The dark-haired woman had to be Carys’s cousin. And the man her husband. It made sense. Although considering how Carys’s relatives had fled before the invasion, it made no sense why a man would allow his wife and her cousin to enter the enemy’s lair.

  And then allow Carys to wander alone. The rage surfaced again, fueled by his steaming lust. How many spineless men were hiding behind the skirts of frail, ancient women? Manipulating Carys so she felt honor bound to remain with them?

  In what other ways were they manipulating her?

  He rapped sharply on Faustus’s door, scarcely waiting for permission to enter before marching inside.

  “Gods,” Faustus said, pottery amphorae in hand, staring across the room that bore more resemblance to a senator’s reception than a military office. “You nearly took the door down, Maximus. Wine?”

  So this was a social visit. He didn’t feel social. He felt like demolishing something. “Celebrating?” He tried to modify his tone, but only partially succeeded.

  Faustus diluted the wine before handing Maximus an exquisitely crafted glass goblet, which had been specifically imported from Rome along with numerous other luxuries Maximus considered unnecessary.

  He resisted the urge to shatter the fragile object and instead drained the contents in one go.

  “Wouldn’t you be celebrating if you were leaving this barbaric land?” Faustus curled his lip in disgust and refilled Maximus’s glass with wine and water. “By Jupiter, I can’t wait to return to civilization.” He waved Maximus toward a chair before sprawling on another. “The Senate awaits.”

  “Good luck to you.” Maximus drained the second glass and slammed it onto the unnaturally tidy desk. The thought of taking his own place in the Senate didn’t appeal, but then, he wasn’t Faustus.

  “With my military record, I won’t need good luck.”

  Maximus declined to answer. Faustus’s military record was negligible, but since it happened to encompass the last year when they had defeated the Druids of Cambria and conquered a good portion of Britannia’s windswept western peninsula, he knew Faustus’s assertion was correct.

  “And now you’re taking my place,” Faustus said, “you’ll only have to suffer this life for another year at most. I’ll ensure the Emperor knows of your exemplary conduct, Maximus.”

  Maximus grunted. If Faustus was waiting for thanks, he could wait until Tartarus froze. Maximus was very aware of his own conduct and didn’t appreciate the character assessment from someone who believed twelve months in service qualified him as a veteran.

  Faustus shot him a frown. “Sit down. There’s a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

  Gritting his teeth, Maximus sat and ignored the discomfort between his legs. But since the ache in his balls radiated throughout his entire groin he wasn’t entirely successful.

  “There’s been a change of plan.” Faustus set his goblet on the desk and unaccountably avoided eye contact. “I’ll be leaving for Londinium this afternoon.”

  That caught Maximus’s attention. “So soon?”

  Faustus shrugged. “My uncle believes there’s no point in staying longer than necessary. I can’t disagree with that.”

  So from tomorrow, he would no longer be the Primus. He glanced around the room, knowing other—private—rooms led from this one. Quarters more than suitable to house Carys in comfort.

  “I have a favor to request.”

  Maximus focused on the younger man, who was frowning as if something other than the anticipated return to Rome was on his mind.

  “Yes?”

  Faustus cleared his throat, and then pulled a small pouch from his belt. He dropped the leather bag onto the desk. “I would ask you to give Efa this, as a sign of my regard.”

  Maximus glanced at the pouch, then stared at Faustus. “You’re leaving without telling her yourself?”

  Faustus made an impatient gesture with his hand, but still avoided eye contact. “If I tell her, she’ll only become hysterical, Maximus. If you explain the situation, she’ll accept it without making an exhibition of herself.”

  Maximus pulled Efa from his memory. He’d met Faustus’s young mistress on only a few occasions over the last three months and she seemed a quiet, timid little thing. But who could tell how a woman would react upon learning her lover had abandoned her?

  He fingered the leather pouch. Felt the weight of the coins within. “You don’t want to leave her.”

  Faustus finally looked up. For one unguarded moment Maximus witnessed the naked longing in the younger man’s eyes, and shock speared through him as he realized the truth of his semi-idle comment.

  “What does it matter what I want?” Faustus said. “I’m heading back to Rome and my intended wife. There’s no future here for me. I’ve always known it.”

  “You could apply for a transfer. Take Efa with you into Britannia.”

  Faustus stared at him as if he thought he’d gone mad. “Britannia?” he repeated. “Gods, I’d go insane if I had to stay in the army indefinitely, Maximus. I’m not like you, loving the life. I’m only here to further my Senate career.”

  He thought of Carys. Of never seeing her smile again, of never hearing her contradict every word he uttered.

  An odd pain twisted his guts.

  “Have you not considered taking Efa back to Rome with you?” Would he take Carys back to Rome with him? Would she even consent to go to Rome if he asked her?

  “Fucking Jupiter.” Faustus poured himself more wine and swallowed it neat. “Of course I have. I have the means to set her up in style; she would want for nothing.” He shot Maximus a scowl. “The old man forbade me. Said it would besmirch the honor of my dear bride to return with my mistress in tow.”

  Maximus’s fingers clenched around the pouch. He didn’t have to wonder how Carys would react to his future bride. She had already told him, in graphic detail.

  “Then have Efa come to you later.”

  Faustus picked up the amphorae and studied it. “That could take months. It’s best I end it now, without leaving Efa false hope of a future together.”

  Maximus narrowed his eyes as he considered Faustus’s words. “A few months are nothing. At least she’d be with you. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Faustus replaced the amphorae on the desk and leveled a dark glare in Maximus’s direction. “I want to take her with me because she’s a good fuck, Maximus. Gods, my cock aches every time I think of her delectable mouth around me.”

  Maximus emitted an unintentional grunt, as the image of Carys’s delectable mouth around him invaded his thoughts.

  One day, and soon, he was determined for that fantasy to become reality.

  “Then have her follow you in a month or two. You’ll be married by the time she arrives, won’t you?” Maximus couldn’t see why Faustus saw obstacles. If he wanted Efa, then he could have her. He’d just have to wait for her; that was all.

  Faustus expelled a disgusted breath. “You haven’t seen my bride, Maximus. Two years ago, when I last paid my respects upon the anniversary of her eleventh year, I had never seen such an unappealing creature in my life. The thought of fucking her withers my balls.”

  “Then close your eyes and think of Rome.” Maximus eyed the amphorae, then decided against another glass. So far the wine, far from deadening the lust in his loins, had fed it.

  “It would take more than Rome to get it up for her,” Faustus growled. “Acquiring a suitable mistress is a priority. You understand, now, how I can’t wait months waiting for Efa. It wouldn’t work.”

  Perceptions adjusted. Maximus frowned. “You only want to take Efa with you for one reason.” Even as he said the words, his brain questioned his response.

  Why else did a man take a mistress if not to satisfy his carnal desires? It certainly wasn’t for the purpose of procreation. That was why a man married. To be
get heirs for Rome.

  Faustus gave a short laugh, devoid of amusement. “What other reason is there?”

  Maximus attempted to prevent the scowl from darkening his face. There was no other reason, although he knew well enough that some men felt far more than mere lust for their mistress.

  For a moment, he had imagined Faustus one of them. Apparently, he’d been mistaken.

  “I thought she might stimulate your brain with her scintillating conversation.” He infused each word with derision, although whether he was deriding Faustus for his cavalier treatment of Efa or himself for his uncharacteristic descent into seeing more than existed, he couldn’t say.

  This time Faustus’s laugh sounded genuine. “There’s not a lot of time for conversation while I’m pounding between her thighs, Maximus.”

  Maximus refused to respond. Faustus didn’t appear to notice.

  “Scintillating conversation?” The younger man grimaced. “Is that how you entertain your whores, Maximus? By talking to them?”

  The sudden vision of hammering his fist into Faustus’s smug face assaulted him. Only the knowledge that the other man had no idea of Carys’s existence prevented him from smashing his superior officer’s nose across his aristocratic cheekbone.

  He swept up the pouch. “I’ll pass on your message in the morning.” As he attached the pouch onto his belt, his knuckles grazed another package. The jewelry he’d bought Carys.

  Fucking Mars. Would nothing go to plan when it came to that woman?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Back in his quarters, Maximus flung the pouch of coins onto his desk in disgust. He couldn’t work out why he was so mad.

  Certainly, the unintentional slur against Carys rankled but he knew Faustus hadn’t meant it personally. No one knew of his involvement with Carys. And when they did, none—not even his superiors—would even consider slighting her name. To do so would be to insult the honor of Tiberius Valerius Maximus himself and all that entailed.

  Something else boiled his blood. Something he couldn’t rationalize. Couldn’t comprehend.

  Something connected to the way he’d misinterpreted Faustus’s regard for Efa.

  It nagged the edge of his consciousness, like a tick from the tropics of Carthage burying into his brain, distracting his purpose. Somehow connected to Carys, although that made no sense because Carys wasn’t Efa and he wasn’t Faustus.

  Would he ever send another to tell Carys he was leaving? That they would never see each other again?

  With a livid curse he snatched up a sheaf of papyrus and glared at the most recent cartography.

  Would he take Carys back to Rome, whatever objections were raised, when the time eventually came for him to take his place in the Senate?

  He forced himself to relax his grip on the papyrus before it disintegrated.

  Yes, he fucking would.

  Even if the objections came from Carys herself.

  He ignored the sliver of his brain that reminded him how stubborn Carys could be. Ignored the fact that while, for the moment, he was unencumbered by a faceless fiancée, that state was unlikely to continue.

  Mainly he ignored the gnawing certainty that Carys wouldn’t hesitate to make her displeasure known if he told her she was going to Rome where she’d be ensconced as his official mistress.

  He sucked in a deep breath, and focused on the meticulously sketched map. He had yet to take over the reins of the Tribunus Laticlavius. Why in Tartarus was he thinking about an impending marriage?

  It would take his father months to secure a suitable match. Possibly even years, considering the scandal surrounding the way he’d left Rome nine years ago. And with any luck the female chosen would be so young, she would be unable to wed for several more years.

  Yet still the disquiet hovered, like a low-lying fog across a marsh, distorting his thoughts, clouding his senses.

  Because of a woman.

  It was ludicrous. There was a time and place to think of women, and now was neither. Again he glowered at the map, narrowing his eyes as he tracked various landmarks and compared them to his mental images.

  Carys was only a woman, like any other woman. And yet she was like no woman he had ever before encountered.

  The damn woman was driving him out of his mind.

  There on the map was the glade where they’d fucked so exquisitely. And there was the waterfall, where he’d first encountered her, the waterfall that reminded him of his family’s country estate in the Bay of Naples.

  And—something wasn’t right.

  He strode to the wall, where an enlarged map of the area was displayed. The valley. The secluded glade. The waterfall. All checked out.

  But still, something grazed the outer edges of his brain. He searched further, stared at the ridge of trees beyond.

  He remembered seeing that forest from a distance as he’d stood on the hill looking into that valley. But according to these maps, there was no forest. Just a line of trees and then another cursed mountain.

  His brain clicked the image into focus. A chill slithered along his arms.

  There was a mountain beyond those trees. But not anywhere near as close as this cartography suggested.

  It was inconceivable such an error had been made. And yet the evidence was here, nailed to the wall and embedded in his mind’s eye.

  He rolled up the map. There was doubtless a simple explanation as to why acres of forest had been omitted, but before he hauled in the scouts and cartographers, he’d double-check the area himself.

  And it had nothing to do with the illogical sensation echoing through his bones that this glaring discrepancy had, in an inexplicable way, something to do with Carys.

  “I need to meditate.”

  Gawain shot Carys a probing look. “Meditate within the spiral, Carys.”

  Carys glanced at the flawless blue sky, then around the green valley and approaching forest. Since leaving the Roman settlement, nerves fluttered incessantly in the pit of her stomach, danced through her veins and vibrated against her temples, making her constantly on edge. As if something not of the mortal world watched her with a malevolent eye.

  “I need to be close to Cerridwen.” Then perhaps the eerie sensation of being followed, even though she knew they weren’t, would disperse.

  “Cerridwen will come to you within the spiral,” Morwyn said, and gave her hand a comforting squeeze. But it didn’t comfort; it merely heightened Carys’s certainty that if she didn’t communicate with her goddess, and soon, she might never experience that immortal touch again.

  Panic flared. She had to discover what Cerridwen had meant by those cryptic words, only the future, she’d uttered in Maximus’s quarters. And the most sacred place was Cerridwen’s Cauldron.

  Reaching around Morwyn, she pulled the horse up and slid to the ground before her friends could voice another objection. “Cerridwen calls.”

  “Then I’ll accompany you.” Morwyn made to dismount but Carys laid her palm across her friend’s thigh.

  “I need isolation.” She couldn’t risk Morwyn discovering anything about Maximus, and who knew what Carys might disclose if she ascended into trance?

  “Then I’ll remain outside the Cauldron’s sacred circle. But you shouldn’t go alone.”

  “Morwyn.” Gawain’s voice held a note of warning. “If Cerridwen wants Carys alone, then she will protect her.”

  Morwyn’s brow furrowed. “Something feels terribly amiss. I can’t explain, but ever since we left the settlement I feel as if a dark cloud hovers above us.”

  “The Roman stench,” Gawain said, but Carys caught Morwyn’s eye and saw understanding dawn.

  “Speak with Cerridwen,” Morwyn said, grasping her hand and squeezing her fingers until they tingled. “Find out how we can dispel this evil once and for all.”

  Gawain growled in his throat, as if he had his own ideas how they could dispel their enemies, and Carys merely nodded. She couldn’t confide what she really wanted to ask her goddess.r />
  “Come, then.” Gawain swung his horse around. “Let’s take the supplies back and be astounded once more at how Aeron believes our dwindling stocks have been miraculously replenished yet again. If he even notices.”

  Morwyn shot Carys an odd glance, as if Gawain’s escalating antipathy toward Aeron both confused and concerned her, before she followed Gawain’s lead.

  Carys pulled the blanket from her shoulders, sucked in a deep breath and headed upstream toward the spring. The sensation of encroaching darkness was palpable, and now that she knew Morwyn had also sensed the suffocating presence of something beyond her understanding, the need to seek her goddess’s advice became more urgent than ever.

  By the time she reached the Cauldron, her heart pounded against her ribs with a combination of fear and exertion. Sinking to her knees, she opened her embroidered bag and sought the special root. She had no business having one in her possession, but the same compulsion that had urged her to collect the slivers of bluestone had also compelled her, on that memorable night, to sequester one from Aeron’s own stocks.

  Her hands trembled as she prepared the concoction. She was being reckless. Perhaps selfish. But despite knowing she was breaking their laws, she continued with her task.

  She trusted Cerridwen implicitly.Her goddess would protect her from discovery, both from her own people and any wandering Roman.

  Aeron gripped the stone edges of the altar as a wave of impending devastation washed through him. The sensation was so sudden, so acute, it sucked the air from his lungs and sent splinters of ice ricocheting through his heart.

  A cold sweat prickled his skin. His stomach roiled and bile scalded his throat, but no vision catapulted him into the heart of the phenomenon.

  Children’s squeals shattered the moment and he dragged open his heavy eyelids and glared at the two culprits, who scampered from the cromlech as if Arawn himself had emerged from the Otherworld to silence their tongues.

  He couldn’t take this for much longer. The cromlech was sacred. The cromlech was his.

  Since the Roman invasion, the cromlech had become more social than sacred, as if his fellow Druids were forgetting its special significance to their way of life.