by Captive
The man didn’t move a muscle. They might have been the only two left in the market, so intense was their focus on each other. Except they weren’t alone. Morwyn stood between them. And he couldn’t risk her safety by launching the first move.
“Dunmacos.” The man’s lips barely moved. His eyes never left Bren’s. “It’s been a long time.”
Every muscle rigid with tension, Bren remained silent. No matter how long it had been since the cousins had met, he couldn’t believe this man would mistake him for Dunmacos. For whatever purpose, this Gaul had decided not to immediately denounce his cover. Likely the man wanted to corner him alone before gutting him.
He’d never get the chance.
“Gervas,” Morwyn said, as if she was perfectly at ease with the other man. As if she was comfortable calling him by name. At least he now knew the Gaul’s name. “Perhaps we can share that meal, after all? The four of us together.”
Two things pierced his brain. One, Morwyn had just invited his deadliest enemy to share a meal with them. And two, the Gaul had obviously asked her to eat with him before Bren had arrived.
For one thundering moment he wasn’t sure which fact infuriated him the most.
Another, inconsequential fact hammered through his pounding temples. Four? He shot a glance at the child, who was staring up at him with big brown eyes. Fearless.
Where the fuck had the child come from? He looked back at Gervas, who appeared to be waiting for his response to Morwyn’s suggestion.
He couldn’t afford to refuse. Couldn’t let Gervas return to the garrison and report that Bren was an imposter.
“Why not?” Bren sounded as enthusiastic as he felt, and the words fell into the heavy silence like boulders.
“Good.” Morwyn took the free hand of the child, slid her arm through Bren’s and effectively erected a barrier between him and Gervas. She then proceeded to lead the way to a nearby tavern and procure them a table, and somehow he found himself sitting next to the child, opposite Morwyn, who had managed to seat Gervas in the corner by the wall.
As military tactics went he couldn’t have planned his position better. But he hadn’t planned it and Morwyn wasn’t a tactician. He shot her a glance, but she appeared serene as she instructed the child to sit up straight and stop picking her nose. She certainly didn’t give the impression that she’d arranged their seating with anything other than sheer coincidence.
“So, cousin.” Gervas offered a chilly smile. “I’ve followed your progress over the last ten years. Impressive.”
“You have me at a disadvantage. I’ve not followed your progress at all.”
Morwyn glanced at Bren as if something in his tone alerted her there was more than simple family dislike in the atmosphere. He didn’t return her glance. Couldn’t afford to take his eyes from Gervas.
“That,” Gervas said, “doesn’t surprise me.”
A serving wench deposited an amphora of ale on the table. It could stay there. Bren wasn’t clouding his mind when his life was on the line.
“And you’ve never served together before?” Morwyn transferred her glance to Gervas, who favored her with a fleeting smile. Something rancid knotted deep in Bren’s gut and he fisted his hands to prevent them from curling around Gervas’s throat and squeezing the life from him.
“Never,” Gervas confirmed.
“Then you both must have a great deal to say to each other.”
Neither man spoke. If Morwyn noticed the animosity simmering in the air, she chose to ignore it. But why did she choose to ignore it? She didn’t normally shy away from confrontation. Or was that only with him? Did she not feel the need to probe and demand answers from Gervas?
“I’d much rather,” Gervas said at last, “spend my time talking to you, Morwyn.”
Heat flared through Bren, scorching his mind. The bastard was flirting with her. Under his nose. And Morwyn didn’t put him in his place with a sharp retort.
Instead she gave a soft laugh. As if she found the Gaul’s words amusing.
“I fear I must disappoint you,” she said, dark eyes flashing as if she enjoyed the interaction. Bren’s chest seethed against iron bands intent on crushing his lungs. “This eve is for you and your cousin to reconnect. I’m only here to stop you killing each other.”
Momentarily distracted from his rigid self-control, Bren glowered at her. Her choice of words were unfortunate since the only thing he and Gervas appeared to have in common was the desire to murder each other.
“I applaud you on your choice of Morwyn.” Gervas was now looking directly at Bren. Challenging. “I find it hard to believe you deserve her.”
He didn’t deserve her. Never would. But that had nothing to do with Gervas.
Their food arrived. More stew. Was that all they served in this settlement? Beside him the child dived into her bowl, as if she was famished, and a flicker of memory stirred. Did he know this child? How could he know her?
“Gwyn.” Morwyn lifted her knife and speared a piece of meat. Without any further instruction the girl picked up her own knife and followed Morwyn’s lead. He glanced up, to find Gervas studying him through narrowed eyes.
“I find myself curious as to what’s happened to you since last we met, cousin.”
Bren deliberately ate some stew, while his brain plowed through old information he’d amassed years ago. He could recall no cousin of Dunmacos called Gervas. He thought he and the small band of warriors he’d once led had covered all their tracks three years ago. He should have known that was impossible.
“Nothing that hasn’t happened to a thousand other auxiliaries attached to the Legions.”
Gervas swirled his knife in his stew and Bren tensed, readying himself for a sudden flick of the other man’s wrist. But Gervas didn’t appear to be preparing for attack. He appeared to want answers first.
“Word reached me only recently of the massacre you endured three years ago.” Gervas paused with his knife play and their gazes clashed. “I regret your loss.”
Despite his focus on Gervas, Bren was aware of how Morwyn’s head jerked toward him, as if the words held meaning for her. But they didn’t. He had said nothing to her of that blood-soaked night and never would. He ignored her in favor of maintaining eye contact with the Gaul.
But said nothing.
“It must be hard,” Gervas said, “being the only survivor. Knowing how many of your kin lost their lives that night.”
Beneath the table, Bren unsheathed his dagger. From the awkward angle, he couldn’t make a kill, but he could maim. So long as the child remained still by his side.
“Although at least, so I heard, you took out a great many of the enemy before incinerating your village.”
Morwyn’s knife clattered onto the table, distracting him. She stared at him, but her expression was unreadable; as if she herself scarcely knew how she was feeling.
This was why he could never confide in anyone. Even the few words of his past he’d admitted to her were now coming back to haunt him. But that didn’t trouble him. What concerned him was the possibility she’d say something to dispute Gervas’s recollection of the facts; that by doing so could put her life in danger.
He’d told her of his own loss. But Gervas was speaking of Dunmacos’s.
His fingers tightened on his dagger and again he focused on Gervas. In the few moments Bren had been looking at Morwyn, the other man could have slung his own dagger through Bren’s throat. Shit, he couldn’t afford to be distracted. But Morwyn distracted him simply by sitting opposite him. Simply by being.
“The enemy perished.” Let Gervas make what he wished of that. It was the truth. That night Dunmacos had died. But so, in every way that mattered, had Bren.
“Yes.” For a long moment Gervas held his gaze. Then he finally speared a lump of meat onto the end of his knife and examined it. “They did.”
The excruciating meal dragged on. Bren ate but only through force of habit. He tasted nothing and drank nothing, and listened to
the banter between Morwyn and Gervas with growing irritation.
The irritation was irrational. He knew it but couldn’t prevent it. When all his senses should be on full alert for attack, the greater part of his mind was eaten up by the fact Morwyn enjoyed the other man’s company.
The child—Gwyn—tugged on his sleeve and he turned to her, banishing his frown only with difficulty. “Yes?” Was she wearing one of Morwyn’s silk ribbons?
“I need to piss.”
He stared at her. He’d not had much interaction with children since the night he’d lost Eryn, and virtually none since he’d become Dunmacos. The thought of escorting her to the latrines didn’t fill him with enthusiasm.
Morwyn tapped her finger on the table. “Do you need to relieve yourself, Gwyn?”
Gwyn sucked on her upper lip for a moment as if processing Morwyn’s question. “Yes.”
Morwyn stood, and he rose to allow Gwyn access. Bren spared only a fleeting moment to watch them cross the crowded room before returning his attention to Gervas.
The other man’s eyes locked with his. “So Dunmacos died three years ago.” It wasn’t a question.
“We’ll take this outside.” His voice was as low as Gervas’s.
Gervas picked up his tankard, took a long swallow, and then regarded him over the rim.
“Dunmacos was distant blood kin. He was also the biggest bastard I’ve come across.”
“He fought with courage.” It was a lie. Bren had gutted him while Dunmacos staggered in a drunken stupor, and then forced his stinking entrails down his convulsing throat. Some things were better left unsaid.
Gervas circled the rim of his tankard with one finger. “Your reasons for taking on his identity don’t concern me. Had you truly been Dunmacos, I would have already cut your throat.” His smile chilled the air. “I’ve been relishing such retribution all week.”
Bren needed a drink. He refused to succumb. Instead he sucked in a long breath, attempting to straighten his mangled thoughts. “You’re not after my blood?”
Gervas shrugged. His eyes were cold. “I’d rather have taken his but it appears I’m too late. Was it personal?”
The question was unexpected. Bren tensed, his senses alert. “Personal?”
“His home village was razed.” Gervas’s voice was barely audible. “That wasn’t a brawl that got out of hand.”
Blood pounded against Bren’s temple and he clenched his jaw in an effort to stem the useless rage that polluted his soul. Personal? The memory of Eryn’s terrified whimpers shredded the fabric of his existence.
“It was.” The words charred his throat.
Gervas’s finger stilled on the tankard. “For me, also.”
From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Morwyn and the child returning. He had one last question to ask.
“Did he murder her too?”
Finally Gervas dropped his gaze and stared into his ale. “No. After he finished with her, she took her own life.”
Morwyn couldn’t put her finger on it but something had changed between her Gaul and Gervas while they’d been alone. Antagonism still clogged the air but it no longer vibrated with the glinting edge of murder. It was as if, beneath mutual distrust, a bond had been forged.
Yet still an unformed suspicion clouded the outer reaches of her consciousness. It was too ephemeral to grasp but teased her with a hidden knowledge. Something important she needed to know that concerned the two men who eyed each other with such controlled restraint.
Something intrinsically entwined with that night her Gaul’s wife had died. The night Gervas had mentioned. The discrepancy of when such atrocity had occurred.
As if by unspoken command, the two men stood and readied to leave. Dusk had not yet settled and they made their way back to the lodgings in silence. It appeared Gervas had lost his appetite for flirtatious conversation, and in truth all she wanted was to wrap her arms around her Gaul. Just to know that . . . she could.
“I go this way.” Gervas was no longer by her side and she turned, along with her Gaul, to stare at him. He was looking at his cousin. “Do we understand each other?”
After a heartbeat of silence, her Gaul responded. “Yes.”
Gervas raised his arm, and after another agonizing moment her Gaul grasped his hand, their forearms straining against each other, entwined fists clenched to the darkening sky. An odd shiver of apprehension scuttled along her spine, although she couldn’t tell why. Wasn’t this what she had wanted? For them to bury their differences and look to the future?
“Morwyn.” Gervas inclined his head in her direction. “May the gods walk with you.”
“And with you.” The response was automatic, and as she watched him stride away the uneasy sense of apprehension slithered deep into her gut.
The three of them returned to their lodgings, and surprisingly her Gaul didn’t mention the presence of Gwyn. She turned to him, to explain, but he was already turning to her, his hand grazing the curve of her shoulder.
“Morwyn, there’s something I need to tell Gervas. Wait inside for me.”
Without giving her time to respond he brushed a brief kiss across her lips and marched back the way they had come.
The apprehension gushed into her bloodstream, poisonous ribbons of dark mistrust, and she shoved Gwyn inside the lodgings, hurried her to their room.
“Stay here,” she ordered. “Do you understand me, Gwyn? You’ll be safe in here. I won’t be long.”
Without waiting for an answer she rushed back outside, but her Gaul had already vanished. She unsheathed her dagger, drew comfort from its familiar feel and weight, and ran to the corner of the road.
In the gathering twilight she saw him up ahead, before he turned down another road and disappeared from view.
Heart pounding, she raced after him, dagger poised should any unwary attacker attempt their luck on a lone woman. She didn’t know why she followed him. Didn’t know why every nerve she possessed screamed at her to reach him before he found Gervas.
All she knew was something horrific hung heavy in the atmosphere. A premonition of impending disaster scraped along her senses, pumping acrid fear through her veins.
They had clasped hands. A show of outward trust, at least. But there was something beyond the complexities of cultural tradition that colored their actions. She couldn’t explain it—knew only that it existed.
And it was deadly.
Panting more with fear than exertion, she flattened herself against the wall before cautiously looking around the corner. If Gervas killed her Gaul—not that he would, why was she even thinking that?—she’d carve out his heart. Sever his windpipe. Wrench out his flirtatious tongue.
Terror slammed into her chest, crushed the breath from her lungs, paralyzed the panicked thoughts colliding through her mind. Less than a stone’s throw from where she stood, her Gaul had Gervas thrust up against the wall, his dagger poised with deadly precision against the other man’s throat.
Chapter Twenty-six
Morwyn sat on the bed, arms wrapped around her knees. In the muted light of the single lamp, she gazed, unseeing, at the huddled figure of Gwyn on the pallet in the corner of the room.
She hardly recalled returning to the lodgings after seeing her Gaul murder Gervas. Even now, when dawn threatened on the eastern horizon, she could scarcely believe she’d witnessed such.
A whisper in the back of her mind reminded her that she hadn’t seen the fatal thrust. She’d backed away, unable to watch, unable to think. But what other outcome could there be? Her Gaul was a warrior. There could be only one conclusion to that sordid scene.
Was she mistaken? Perhaps she’d stumbled onto nothing more than a drunken brawl. Perhaps her Gaul hadn’t followed Gervas with the sole intention of killing him.
Yet neither man had been drunk. And no matter how she tried to delude herself, she’d seen the icy determination in her Gaul’s eyes.
It hadn’t been a hotheaded fight. He had planned the attack.
And, as if in confirmation, her Gaul had not returned to her all night.
A shiver rattled through her bones, although it was far from cold. Had he deserted her?
It was madness to dwell on such a thing. If she had any sense, she’d even now be rousing Gwyn, gathering their possessions and making haste to Caratacus. Except she couldn’t creep away like a criminal. As if she had something to hide or was cowed by his actions. Because she had done nothing wrong, had nothing to hide from him—apart from her heritage—and gods knew she wasn’t afraid of him.
Not even now. Not even when she’d seen what he was capable of doing in cold blood.
Her forehead dropped to her knees and she squeezed her eyes shut. Had Maximus spoken the truth about her Gaul? Was he truly the heartless barbarian the Roman had portrayed? And what of that night he had spoken of—why had he told her it had occurred six years ago when Gervas declared it three?
She should leave it. Leave him. It didn’t matter what the truth was because it made no difference. Sooner or later they were destined to part. Except she didn’t want to leave him when her mind was so confused over his actions.
She didn’t want to leave him at all.
The thought blazed through her brain, condemning her. But still she refused to condemn him. There was a reason why he’d acted as he had. She wouldn’t make her decision until she’d heard his side. Despite the evidence of her own eyes, she could be wrong. It was possible.
Druids had been wrong before.
With a ragged sigh she pushed herself from the bed and checked that Gwyn was still asleep, before stealthily slipping from the room with the lantern in one hand and her dagger in the other. As she approached the latrines, apprehension trickled along her spine and her grip on her dagger tightened.
The door was ajar. The stale stench of ale and vomit assaulted her senses and she gagged, protecting her mouth and nose with the back of her wrist. In the flickering glow from her lamp she saw her Gaul sprawled against the far wall, amphorae broken on the floor beside him.
A pain so deep it stilled her breath shuddered through her heart. A pain that didn’t diminish as she approached her lover but increased, engulfing not just her heart but her entire chest, her lungs. Even her stomach. As if the agony wrenching through her needed to escape its point of origin or else risk utter destruction.