Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02]

by Captive

  A dull rage knotted deep in his gut. He’d been so sure she would remain at the inn. But given the first opportunity, she’d escaped.

  Only now did he recall her interest in Camulodunon. Only now could he see she’d gone along with his demands because it suited her to. She had never intended to return to Cymru. She’d allowed him to see what he’d wanted to see, and not what should have been obvious to a half-wit.

  He’d been blinded by lust. And she’d used that against him.

  His fingers curled around the hilt of her jewel-encrusted dagger. He had no rights over her. The Roman had clearly given Morwyn her protection. All he had left was the memory of their night together and her dagger.

  The memory would drive him insane if he let it, and the dagger would fetch a good price at market. Except he knew, even as the savage thought crossed his mind, he would never sell the cursed dagger. He’d keep it, to remind himself how futile it was to ever imagine he deserved a reprieve from his cursed existence.

  Morwyn turned from the Roman and headed out of the forum. For a moment Bren remained paralyzed, following her progress with an uncompromising glare, until realization hit.

  She was leaving the sanctity of the forum. Abandoning her Roman. Once out on the streets it would be much easier to capture her again. To escort her back to the inn.

  To fuck her until she forgot why she wanted to leave him and remembered only that he was the one who wrenched mind-splintering orgasms from her convulsing body.

  Keeping a good distance, he followed her. Where was she going? To meet with another Roman?

  A chill iced his blood. Was she a spy for the Romans? Was her vocal loathing for the invaders nothing more than a cover?

  Could he kill her as coldly as he’d kill any other Celt he discovered to be engaged in such betrayal?

  He had in the past. But they hadn’t been Morwyn.

  Sweat slicked the palms of his hands. A physical weakness he hadn’t experienced since boyhood. Still she continued, as if she knew exactly where she was going, and still he hung back, unwilling to hold a dagger to her throat. Unwilling to ask her the questions to prove her a traitor.

  The streets became less crowded. At any moment she might turn and see him. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He could either allow her to walk away, or abduct her now.

  Let her go. He couldn’t believe she was a traitor to her people. All she had wanted was her freedom.

  His chest constricted, as if his lungs had trouble accessing air. It made sense to let her go. She was an encumbrance. She slowed him down. And despite it all, his pace quickened and he crossed the road, decreasing the distance between them. Intending to grab her and keep her until they returned to her homeland.

  He couldn’t think further than that.

  She came to a sudden halt, turned toward a building and vanished inside.

  With a jolt of disbelief, he realized they were back at the inn. She had returned to him of her own free will.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He remained on the road, expecting her to emerge at any moment. But she’d had her pack with her. Why would she return to the place she was escaping from? For all she knew, he had already discovered her absence and would be waiting for her, dagger drawn.

  Grimy beggars rummaged in the rotting rubbish discarded by the side of the inn, and a couple of gaudily painted women from the adjacent brothel propositioned him. And still Morwyn didn’t reappear.

  Finally he entered the inn, was given directions to his room, and stood outside the door. His heart thundered against his ribs, as if he were about to go into battle. Yet he was ice-cold when he faced a battle, his mind clear and body under absolute control.

  Rattled by the knowledge she could so easily shatter the calm he’d taken years to perfect, he thrust open the door. She was standing by the window, arms folded, looking in his direction as if she’d been waiting for him.

  As if she had never left.

  Lust raged, but he remained by the door. She might have returned only to plunge a newly acquired dagger through his heart. He wanted her, but not at the expense of his life.

  He’d strip her of all weapons first. Then interrogate her. And then fuck her until this insane craving eating his reason was vanquished.

  “There’s no need,” Morwyn said as her arms dropped to her sides and she closed the distance between them, “to look so happy to see me.”

  “Should I be?” Instinctively his fingers curled around his dagger. Only to realize it was the bejeweled hilt of Morwyn’s dagger he grasped.

  Her glance dropped to his hand and he caught the fleeting surprise that flashed across her face, as if his action made no sense to her. As if she hadn’t the slightest idea he knew she’d had ample opportunity to arm herself.

  “I take it your business didn’t go well.” She looked up at him, no hint of fear or trepidation in her tone or expression. Despite the fact he gripped a dagger as if she were his mortal enemy.

  With more effort than should have been necessary, he unhooked his fingers from the handle. Even if she lunged at him with a dagger in both hands, what kind of man was he if he couldn’t disarm her without resorting to a weapon?

  “What makes you think that?” Was she fishing for information? To pass on to her Roman friend?

  Why would a Roman noblewoman be interested in such matters? Gods, his brain was fogged. If Morwyn were a man, she would already be on the floor, a heartbeat away from having her throat cut. He didn’t do supposition or ponder on possibilities. If threatened, he retaliated. Instantly and without compunction.

  And here he was, standing before Morwyn and making excuses for her behavior instead of demanding to hear the truth.

  “Perhaps,” Morwyn said, stepping directly in front of him and tilting her jaw so she could maintain eye contact. Her arms remained at her sides. “Because you look as if you’ve just been thrust into one of those barbarous gladiatorial arenas without warning.”

  He didn’t wonder how she knew of such arenas when there was none in Cymru. Morwyn appeared to know many things, not least the Latin of the aristocracy. Had the Roman noblewoman taught her?

  “My business is completed.” Why did she stand so close? The musky scent of aroused woman—of Morwyn—invaded his senses, as potent as any exotic aphrodisiac from the East. His fists clenched against his thighs. He would not be seduced by her wiles. Not until she’d answered his questions.

  Except he couldn’t remember his questions.

  She edged even closer. Her breathing was ragged, her dark eyes dilated.

  “You smell of Roman spices.”

  “You don’t sound repelled.”

  For answer she shoved him against the door, and it slammed shut behind him. And despite his mistrust, despite his resolve to remain in control, a treacherous smile tugged at his lips.

  No woman had ever shoved him so unceremoniously. His beloved Eryn had been too gentle to engage in such rough play and the few women he’d taken since were faceless and fleeting and afraid of offending him.

  “Ah.” Morwyn dragged her nails up the back of his neck and across his scalp. Shivers of lightning stabbed through his brain. “You find me amusing, do you? A pleasant diversion from your taxing auxiliary duties?”

  “Yes.” His voice was smoky with arousal, and with one swift maneuver he spanned her waist and spun her around, so she was the one pinned against the door.

  His captive.

  She dug her nails into his head, dragged him toward her. “Is that all?” Her warm breath smelled of aromatic berries and sharp woodland spices. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he pulled up her gown. No concealed weapons were strapped to her thighs. “Just yes? Amusing and diverting?”

  “No.” His lips brushed hers. “You’re also infuriating and unpredictable.” His hands cupped her rounded bottom, the flesh taut and smooth against his fingers. “Intolerable.”

  She smiled, and he felt her teeth against his lips. “That’s better, Gaul. You are a fast le
arner, after all.”

  He laughed, the sound shocking him, but not enough to cut the laugh short. “Do you always talk so much during sex?” It was a novelty. For the last six years sex had been merely a physical release. There’d been no need for idle talk. But now, inexplicably, he enjoyed the breathless exchanges.

  “Not always.” Briefly, shockingly, she nipped his lip. “Sometimes I scream.”

  Her words were as potent as if she’d sunk to her knees and taken him into her mouth. His fingers gripped her flesh, jerking her roughly against his erection.

  “You’ll scream for me.”

  She angled herself against him, and despite the barrier of his clothes between them, he could still feel the damp heat of her tempting him.

  “Make me.” It was a dare. A challenge.

  His grip tightened and as he slammed her more securely against the door, he hefted her upward. With a smile of feminine triumph she wound her legs around his waist, and he felt her cross her ankles in the small of his back, and her grip was lethal.

  He bared his teeth as frustration pounded through him. He needed to free himself, but couldn’t risk Morwyn sliding from his grasp. As if she could read his mind, she gave a breathless laugh and ruthlessly dragged the bottom of his tunic up to his belly, heedless of how the material tangled around his cock.

  An involuntary hiss scraped between his teeth. And then her fingers curled around him, guiding him, taking control.

  She rubbed his sensitive glans across her clitoris in a sensual, circular motion, her juices sliding over him in delicious, minute waves. Her lips parted, her eyes glazed, but she never took her gaze from him.

  Angling her more securely against the door, he braced her weight on his forearms. Her muscles were rigid around him, a viselike grip that merged pain and desire until he couldn’t fathom whether the sensation was pleasure or agony. It didn’t matter. It speared through his body, lancing his cock and tightening his balls. Catapulted through his arteries, scorching his blood and sending fiery tendrils of unimaginable lust through his groin and gut and chest.

  He needed to touch her. Feel her softness, her heat. His fingers slid over the curve of her buttock, seeking her core with unaccustomed urgency. The damp curls of her pussy welcomed him, drew him onward and sucked him into her hot sheath with exhilarating prowess.

  Gasping into her flushed face, he inserted a second finger, pressing against her slick walls, stretching the tender flesh for his exploration. Her strong muscles contracted, squeezing his fingers together, and he resisted the pressure, forcing her open. Her eyes lost focus and her hands involuntarily gripped his cock and the back of his neck in a punishing duet.

  The groan scalded his throat and stars exploded behind his eyes as she squeezed him in an unbearable embrace. Tremors danced through her tight cleft, rippled over his fingers, and her swollen clitoris burned the head of his engorged shaft.

  “Morwyn.” Her name fell from his lips, wild and raw, and he slipped one finger from her to tease her sensitive bud.

  For answer she hitched herself up a minute degree and jerked his erection under her without care for his comfort. But he didn’t care for comfort, not when the entrance to her wet channel teased his throbbing head. Not when his fingers caressed her exposed pussy and his probing cock, when she slowly, too slowly, lowered herself onto him.

  He dragged his fingers, drenched with her fragrant juices, along the length of his shaft as he invaded her welcome depths. She enveloped him in a snug embrace, sinking onto his rigid flesh, and his fingertips caressed her passion-swollen lips as she sucked him into her delectable body.

  Jagged gasps of impending climax gusted from her luscious mouth. She gripped his arse with her hands, jerking him upward and into her, and counterbalancing each thrust with a violent one of her own.

  Gods, but he wanted her naked, wanted to feel her succulent breasts against his chest, feel her hard nipples stroke his flesh, see his cock pound into her with every frenzied beat. And then it didn’t matter as her head dropped back and inarticulate moans fell from her tongue, so excruciatingly erotic his testicles hardened in instant reaction.

  Her fingernails gouged his arse; her legs threatened to crush his ribs. And her convulsing sheath shattered the last remnant of control as he hammered into her, coming with savage abandonment and primal roar.

  Morwyn clung to him, limbs trembling with delicious fatigue, as he rammed her against the door. She could feel his hot seed pumping into her with every frenzied thrust, flooding her channel and filling her womb, and an odd sense of contentment bathed her soul.

  For long moments they remained melded together, harsh pants rending the air, erratic heartbeats echoing through her mind. He made no move to disengage, and despite the hardness of the timber digging into her back, and the first twinges of cramp that threatened her calves, she had no inclination to push him away.

  Instead she indulged her secret desire and lost herself in the mesmeric green of his eyes. Eyes that no longer glinted with distrust but smoldered with embers of uninhibited lust.

  She had turned her back on Carys for this.

  The thought drifted through her mind. For a moment it felt perfectly right. And then, with sluggish realization, she recalled the rebellion back in Cymru.

  That was the reason she had left Carys. To join with Caratacus. How had she forgotten, for even a moment?

  Her Gaul’s beautiful eyes captured her attention once again. How extraordinary she should think them beautiful, but they were. A startling counterpoint to the harsh, unsmiling visage he presented to the world.

  Except when he smiled. When he smiled, she could see the man he might have been, if he hadn’t turned his back on his people and joined the enemy forces.

  But the thought was distant, almost inconsequential. Because despite the feeble attempt at self-delusion, she knew exactly why she had returned to him.

  Because of him. Returning to join with the rebels was only a secondary consideration and something she didn’t want to think about. Not now, when he was still inside her, when he still held her and looked at her as if she meant something more than a quick fuck.

  The thought glinted, an uneasy prickle through her mind. What else was he, what else could he ever be, but a quick fuck? So why did she want, for even a fleeting moment, to be more than that to him?

  “What are you thinking about?” His voice was hoarse but his gaze was steady. And his grip on her as secure as ever, as if her weight didn’t tire him at all.

  She pushed all thoughts of the disposed Briton king aside. Plenty of time to think of such things later. When she left her Gaul.

  “I’m thinking you satisfy me quite admirably, for my enemy.”

  His lip twitched, but a stab of disappointment sliced through her when he didn’t allow himself a full smile.

  “And yet you didn’t scream.”

  She’d scarcely had enough breath to stay conscious, never mind anything else. And her heart had thundered so violently it was a miracle it hadn’t burst from her body.

  Words of explanation almost tumbled from her lips but something stilled her tongue. It was easy to flirt. But she’d never lost her voice during sex before and couldn’t quite believe she had just now. After all, she had screamed most adequately last night.

  But she had to say something in response.

  “Then next time, you’ll simply have to try harder.”

  A silent laugh shook his body, as if he knew full well how deeply he’d satisfied her. Fascinated by his reaction, she stared at him. She always enjoyed flirting and only once in her life had she been involved with a man who had taken exception to her particular brand of humor. They had barely lasted one night together.

  But never before had she made so many potentially disrespectful comments. Then again, she’d never before been abducted, and as far as she was concerned he deserved every word she’d slung at him.

  Yet that initial animosity had passed, and now that she considered the matter she rea
lized there was something about pushing this Gaul’s limits she found irresistible. When else had she insulted a lover’s performance while they were still joined as one?

  Any man would feel justified at taking offense. If she believed the outrageous claims of Carys’s husband, then Dunmacos wasn’t the sort of man to allow a woman to utter such slurs without savage retribution.

  Yet all he did was smother a laugh. Because he knew she didn’t mean it. Knew she’d been so consumed with mind-shattering orgasms she’d all but passed out.

  It was unnerving, to consider he knew such things about her. Because until this moment she hadn’t even known them herself.

  “I will, if you will.” His husky whisper, threaded with amusement, nonplussed her for a moment, until she realized what he meant.

  Gods, he was flirting in the same manner. Why was that so arousing?

  “That depends.” With stiffening fingers, she tugged the hem of his tunic. “I’m tired of fighting your cursed clothes. Next time I want naked flesh.” His name thudded in her brain, and incomprehensibly her heart hammered in sudden nerves.

  Say his name. How hard could it be? She sucked in a sharp breath and forced the name between her lips before she could change her mind. “Dunmacos.”

  His half smile froze, and his eyes became chips of wintry ice. Bemused by such a swift change in his manner, she stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “Don’t.” His voice was harsh, bitter, as if she had just accused him of—She couldn’t imagine. She’d insulted his heritage, his loyalties and his sexual prowess and he hadn’t so much as tossed a genuine frown her way. What had she said now?

  A glimmer flashed through her mind, but it didn’t make sense. Why would he not want her to say his name? That couldn’t be the reason. There was something else.

  “Don’t what?”

  He eased out of her, leaving her chilled and exposed and oddly rejected. But that was insane, because every copulation ended with withdrawal and never before had such a natural action invoked such a feeling within her.