Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02]

by Captive

  Within moments of leaving his king, Bren froze as the unmistakable voice of Trogus’s came from seemingly nowhere. Was he losing his mind? Was his fury over Caratacus’s plans causing him to hear things?

  There wasn’t any way Trogus could have found his way into the hidden enclave. And then a chill scuttled along the back of his neck. He hadn’t been as meticulously careful in concealing his tracks this day. Gods, was it possible that because of his black preoccupation, Trogus had been able to follow him?

  Bren unsheathed his dagger, turned in the direction from where the voice had originated. Although whom Trogus was talking to he couldn’t imagine. Far more likely the bastard would kill anyone he saw on sight.

  And this was why they’d needed sufficient guards at the entrance. Gods, it drove him insane when—

  “No one in their right senses would send a creature like you to spy on a warrior such as Dunmacos. He possesses more honor in one glance than you could hope to salvage in seven lifetimes.”

  For one amplified, echoing heartbeat that vibrated every bone in his body and rattled his brain against his skull, Bren knew he had tumbled into madness.

  Morwyn couldn’t be here. Captured by Trogus—once again—and forced to listen to the filthy lies that spewed from the other man’s mouth.

  And instead of pleading for her life, or agreeing with Trogus in hopes of lowering his guard, she was de fending Bren?

  The last revelation slammed him back to the present. She was at Trogus’s mercy—there was no doubt in his mind of her predicament—and yet she defended him against Trogus?

  “Bastard fooled you easy enough.” Trogus sounded amused. Bren edged forward and now he could see how Trogus had Morwyn pinned against a tree, how his dagger traced insolently over her partially exposed breast. “Would you like me to tell you of his bloodlust as he slaughters your countrymen for the might of Rome?”

  Bren sucked in a calming breath through his mouth, but his blood boiled in his veins at the knowledge it was his fault Trogus had found the enclave. His fault Morwyn was, yet again, in danger.

  He angled into position, calculated the distance and drew his sword in his free hand on the slender possibility that his first assault wouldn’t sufficiently disable Trogus.

  Morwyn laughed, the sound sharp and eerie and wrong, and it momentarily threw Bren off balance. “How much longer do you intend to regale me with the bold deeds of Dunmacos? Can it be his exploits excite you? Is that the only way your putrid worm of a cock thickens?”

  Curse the gods, what was she thinking? Did she want Trogus to plunge the dagger through her heart? Even from this distance Bren could see the mad gleam in the other man’s eyes. Without waiting for further proof of Morwyn’s inability to protect her selfinterests, he sent the dagger flying and it impaled Trogus’s cheek, hurling him to the ground.

  Bren covered the short distance in an instant, intending to prize Morwyn from the tree and crush her in his arms to comfort her. But she was already on her knees by Trogus, who was trying desperately to tug Bren’s dagger from his cheek, and she gripped his hair in one hand, forcing his head back so his throat was fully exposed.

  “You fucking barbarian,” she said clearly, before she spat in his face and opened his artery. Then she dropped his head, wiped her blade on the grass and looked up.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Relief that she was safe, fury that she had antagonized a man who’d held her life in his hands, flooded his mind in a jumbled torrent. Faint bruising still marred her face, traces of blood streaked her nose, her mouth, her jaw and her throat, her hands were bloodied and engrained with dirt, and she was the bravest, most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  “Were you trying to get yourself killed?” His voice was harsh, and to stop himself from shaking sense into her he swiftly retrieved his dagger to occupy his free hand.

  “I had no intention of being killed.” Disdain dripped from every word, as if his concern was beneath her.

  He straightened and glared at her for her foolish pride. “You mocked his masculinity and you think he wasn’t this close to murdering you?”

  “That’s right.” As she rose to her feet, as regal as a queen, her dark eyes flashed and breasts heaved, as if she was having trouble filling her lungs. Blood surged and his cock responded and he clenched the hilts of his sword and dagger until his knuckles ached. “He was so insulted, his attention wavered.” Her breath hissed between her teeth. “I had no need for you to rescue me, Gaul.”

  He glanced at the body of Trogus. Dark blood soaked the earth and pumped from his opened throat. “Would you rather I stood by and watch him maul you?”

  “That,” Morwyn said, thrusting the tip of her dagger to the prone body, “is what happens to those who maul me.”

  The stench of foul blood and the pungent aroma of clean earth thudded in the air, mingling with the scent of arousal and denial. He sheathed his sword, flexed his fingers and gripped his dagger as if he faced his deadliest enemy.

  She continued to glare at him, as if the feeling was mutual, her dagger no longer pointing at Trogus.

  “Did he bring you here?” When? How? Trogus would have disarmed Morwyn at the earliest opportunity. But how else had she entered the enclave?

  Her lip curled in clear disgust. “I have no need for traitors or barbarians to bring me anywhere. You’re not the only one with secrets, Gaul.”

  Her warm breath grazed his face. Had he moved toward her? Or had she stepped toward him? He couldn’t remember, didn’t care. Danger pounded with every thud of his heart, hot and heavy and, gods, it felt good, right. As if only with Morwyn his senses became fully alive.

  Barely aware of his actions, he let his fingers trail along the proud angle of her jaw. Her skin was warm, silky. She didn’t jerk away, but loathing filled her eyes as if his touch repelled.

  Yet her breathing quickened and a blush heated her cheeks. It was clear she hated the way her body responded to his touch.

  “Secrets?” He should step back. Allow them both space to think, to breathe. But Morwyn didn’t move and neither did he, as if they were imprisoned within the deceptive beauty of amber.

  “Oh, yes.” The tip of her dagger pressed against his heart. He could feel it like a brand against his skin, even through the chain mail he wore against the praefectus’s orders. “This Sacred Spiral that hides so much is a cursed legacy from my High Druid.”

  For a moment he didn’t understand the significance of her words, why she sounded so bitter. And then fragments of reality intruded: the rumored source of this magical enclave, the holy martyr who had died while attempting to cleanse the land of the invaders.

  “You were from his village?” No wonder she hated the Romans so.

  She bared her teeth in a mockery of the smile he had thought never to see again.

  “His village? He owned nothing. Not me, none of my compatriots.” Her blade slid against his chest, as delicate as a lover’s caress. “I’m a Druid, Gaul.”

  His fingers stilled against her face. A Druid. No shock ricocheted through his blood; no disgust hammered through his brain. He’d always known she was more than a trader, had guessed she possessed noble blood. It was as if, in a buried corner of his soul, he had always suspected the truth.

  Her pride. Her fearlessness. The cut of her gown, the quality of her jewelry. And then he was catapulted back to that night when he’d told her of Eryn, when she had whispered strange words of comfort. Only now did he recall they were the same words the Druids, who had feverishly worked to save his life six years ago, had intoned over his broken body.

  How had he, for even a moment, imagined she had been a slave?

  Gods. The woman in the forum. Morwyn’s lifelong friend. The wife of the tribune. No wonder that strange, haunted expression had flickered over her face when he’d told her of the rumors surrounding the tribune’s wife. Had she imagined he intended to betray her friend’s secret to his superiors?

  “Yes.” The word was a hiss.
He realized her free hand gripped his forearm, as if she would drive his dagger through her heart. “One of the despised Druids. What do you think of that?” She sounded triumphant, despairing, as if she truly thought it made a difference to the way he felt.

  “I don’t care what you are.” His fingers tangled in the curling tendrils that escaped her braid. “You’re mine now.” Because there was no going back. Not for him to the garrison or for Morwyn to her previous life. Now that she knew he wasn’t her enemy, there was nothing to keep them apart.

  Her blade slipped beneath the layers of iron rings and pierced his flesh. He gritted his teeth, laid the flat of his blade against the tempting swell of her exposed flesh. She didn’t try to prevent him. Instead, her grip tightened around his arm, as if she wanted him to mar her skin, draw blood as she drew his.

  It would never happen.

  “I belong to no man.” Yet even as she spoke she swayed toward him and he hastily altered the angle of his dagger so she didn’t injure herself. “I’m not yours, and I never will be.”

  Her lips parted; her dark eyes invited. He scarcely comprehended her words as he lowered his head. “I don’t recall offering you the choice, Morwyn.”

  Warm, spiced breath tantalized his lips as she struggled to maintain some vestige of control. “I don’t fuck traitors.” The words lanced his lust-drenched senses, scorched his brain.

  “Traitor?” He pulled back, but only enough so he could scrutinize her face, to ensure she wasn’t indulging in some warped jest.

  She looked utterly serious. And utterly wretched. As if she believed she knew the truth.

  “Morwyn.” He softened his tone, cradled her face, attempted to remove his dagger from her breast. But she tightened her fingers around him, and since the last thing he wanted was a fight, he ceased resisting. “I’m not a traitor. These are my people. Not the Romans.”

  He half expected her to melt into his arms with joyful relief. But this was Morwyn. And Morwyn never did anything he expected. Even her expression of resigned misery didn’t alter. As if his words didn’t surprise her, but didn’t sway her either.

  “Bren.” The voice echoed through the forest and he bit back a curse as Morwyn immediately pulled back. With the history they shared, Judoc was the last person he wanted to see while he was trying to convince Morwyn of his loyalty.

  Judoc, blood kin on his mother’s side, a close aide to Caratacus and the only one left alive who knew the full depths of depravity to which Bren had sunk on that night three years ago.

  “Fuck it, Bren.” Judoc glared at him. It was obvious he hadn’t seen Morwyn, who had retreated into the shade. He kept her in his peripheral vision. She wouldn’t escape him a second time. Not now, when he no longer needed to keep up the pretense of being Dunmacos.

  “What?” Bren’s impatience was clear in his voice and he tapped his dagger against his thigh in mounting irritation.

  “Caratacus—” Judoc’s glance fell upon Trogus’s body and his stance instantly stiffened into warrior mode. He whipped out his dagger and advanced, his eyes never leaving the prone figure by Bren’s feet.

  It was obvious to a half-wit the bastard was dead. And Judoc was far from witless. Bren gritted his teeth. It was clear an explanation was required. Perhaps then Judoc would leave and let Bren finish convincing Morwyn to take a chance on him.

  Judoc made an odd gagging sound, his eyes widened in stupefaction, and then he collapsed at Bren’s feet, one hand clutching his neck.

  For a moment Bren stared at the other man, his brain unable to process the evidence of his eyes. Then Morwyn grabbed Bren’s arm and tugged him until he tore his gaze from Judoc and looked at her.

  There was a wild look in her eyes and the blood and dirt that smeared her face gave her an exotically feral appearance. Her dagger was sheathed and in her free hand she held a slender reed.

  “Move.” Her voice was guttural, vibrated with terror. “Just go. What are you waiting for? He wouldn’t have come alone.”

  He glanced once again at Judoc. The other man’s hand had fallen from his neck and now Bren saw the small, deadly dart protruding from the flesh.

  “You poisoned him.” He heard the words fall from his tongue, but could make no sense of them. Why had she poisoned Judoc? He crouched and pulled the dart free, allowing blood to trickle over the clammy skin.

  She shoved him, hard. “What are you doing?” She glanced around, as if ensuring they were still alone. “You don’t have much time. You have to go, now.”

  Slowly he pushed himself to his feet. “I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you until you explain why you just tried to kill Judoc.”

  She bared her teeth as if she hated him. “So he wouldn’t kill you, you treacherous bastard.”

  The trees compressed, his vision darkened, and all he could see was Morwyn’s pale face and accusing eyes. And all he could hear was a recurring echo of her furious words.

  So he wouldn’t kill you.

  She had been prepared to kill his blood cousin—to save him.

  The breath staggered from his lungs, leaving him light-headed as if he’d overindulged with the incenses used by the Druids during his coming-of-age ceremony so long ago.

  “He wasn’t going to kill me.” But she hadn’t known that. She had thought he was in danger and had acted—instinctively.

  His guts clenched, agony twisted through with a rare, unimaginable ecstasy. Disbelief entwined with a fragile thread of hope.

  And awe melded with incredulity that anyone, least of all Morwyn, had been prepared to kill one of their own in order to save his worthless skin.

  “He saw the dead auxiliary. He drew his dagger. Of course he was going to kill you. He thought you’d just murdered their spy.”

  He needed to take her in his arms. Wanted to explain everything to her. But Judoc was dying. He once again crouched, felt his cousin’s pulse. It was slow, sluggish, but did not appear to be fading any further.

  “Trogus”—he jerked his head at the auxiliary—“was nothing. I’ve been Caratacus’s eyes and ears in the Roman Legions for the last three years.”

  She didn’t answer, but he saw her fingers tighten on the reed until her knuckles glowed white beneath the dirt. He lowered his head to Judoc, fastened his lips around the wound.

  “Don’t.” Her voice sounded oddly dull. “The poison won’t kill him. He’ll awaken naturally soon enough.”

  He sat back, spared his cousin a brief glance. He’d not left Bren’s side during the hunt for the murderers of Eryn. It was more than mere relief to know Morwyn, the woman who held his future in her hands, wouldn’t be responsible for ending Judoc’s life.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth, Morwyn.” He looked up at her. She hadn’t moved, still stared at him as if she had never seen him before. “Knowing my true identity could have endangered you.”

  The tip of her tongue flicked over her lips. “And what is your true identity?”

  There was nothing else he could do for Judoc and so he stood, his cousin lying between him and the woman he loved.

  “Brennus, son of the Chieftain Brennus of the Rhine and”—he hesitated for a heartbeat—“the Princess Olwina of the Catuvellauni tribe of old Camulodunon.”

  Her gaze flickered. He wondered if she recalled him telling her that he possessed a drop of noble blood. Even in that, he’d not told her the truth.

  Now he would hold back nothing. Except for one thing.

  “Caratacus is my mother’s cousin. I swore him a blood fealty. It’s the reason I followed Gervas that night.” Morwyn had guessed his intention. Gods, she’d assumed he had murdered the Gaul, yet still she’d remained by his side. Guilt haunted him, as he knew it would forever haunt him, at the knowledge he had knowingly risked his king’s safety by not killing a potential threat. And the reason why he had risked everything stood before him now, oblivious. He didn’t expect Morwyn to forgive him for what he’d intended that night, but he hoped, someday, she’d at le
ast understand.

  “Yes.” Her voice was hoarse. “I understand the bonds of blood.”

  Of course she did. She was a Druid. They were obsessed with preserving the purity of their bloodlines, the purity of the nobles they allegedly served. She might not like it, any more than he did, but she understood. And because of her heritage she considered there was nothing to forgive.

  “I’ve never been your enemy, Morwyn.”

  She swallowed, and for a moment he thought she was going to step toward him, take his offered hand. Instead a shudder rippled over her and she straightened, as if coming to a decision. But she didn’t speak, and silence stretched between them, a chasm he didn’t know how to breach. As the deathly hush invaded his heart, the marrow of his bones, she finally responded.

  “I know.”

  Breath hissed between his teeth. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it until that moment. Hadn’t acknowledged just how uncertain he’d been that she would accept his word. Accept the reason why he hadn’t told her the truth.

  That she would be willing to let them start again.

  He stepped over Judoc. With one dead auxiliary and one unconscious blood kin, the surroundings were hardly ideal. But what did that matter when he needed to reassure Morwyn her faith in him was justified? That her actions, while she still thought him her enemy, had touched him more profoundly than anything else he’d experienced?

  “I understand why you left me.” He stood before her, not touching, but drinking in the sight of her face, the fragrance of her hair. The reality of her presence. “But I would never have hurt you.” He hesitated, unsure, and then knew she deserved to hear. “Not even if Caratacus himself ordered me to.”

  Her bottom lip trembled, just once, before she tensed her jaw and jerked her head in a gesture of acceptance. “I’ve never been afraid that you’d hurt me, Ga—Brennus.”

  Gods, to hear his true name from her lips. It was sweeter than he’d even imagined.