The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance

by Christina Phillips

  So why did Morwyn have that look of barely suppressed glee on her face? As if she guessed Carys was going to meet a secret lover?

  “Thank you.” Carys decided to give more credence to her deception. “Because I’ve given my word, Morwyn. It’s imperative I see this person.”

  “Of course it is,” Morwyn said, nodding far more vigorously than the situation warranted. “And Aeron will never let you leave if he sees you.” She stepped to the threshold before turning back. “I’ll lead him away from here,” she whispered. “But hurry. I don’t have what he requires to maintain his interest for more than a few moments at most.”

  Carys watched Morwyn saunter toward Aeron, and wondered why he had never shown any interest in her. Morwyn made no secret of the fact she wanted Aeron in her bed, and it was a source of much good-natured teasing among their fellow acolytes.

  Not that the dark-haired, vivacious beauty ever lacked for bed partners. And neither, until fleeing to this sacred place, had Aeron. But, since his tastes favored the young of either sex outside their spiritual circle, as far as Carys could gather, he’d been celibate for the last seven moons.

  That could, she supposed, be the reason why he had started to press his attentions on her again.

  She suppressed a shudder at the thought of once again becoming his lover. And wondered why, of all the acolytes, he had chosen her as the only Druid he ever fucked.

  “Aeron.” Morwyn’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She watched the other woman run her arm along Aeron’s, saw the way he imperiously brushed her touch aside. “I had a dream—a vision. I need your guidance.”

  “I’m not your mentor. Speak to Hywela.”

  “This is different. I need to show you something.”

  Pure reflex caused Carys to glance over her shoulder to ensure Hywela, the High Druid of the Morrigan, wasn’t within earshot. Hywela, the niece of Carys’ grandmother, most certainly wouldn’t approve of Morwyn assisting Carys in her deception.

  That she would disapprove of Carys’ meeting with a Roman in the first place went without saying.

  But the passage that led into the ancient underground chambers was empty. And Morwyn was leading a clearly reluctant Aeron in the opposite direction of the gateway to the outside world.

  Carys sucked in a quick breath, gathered up her embroidered bag, and hurried through the cromlech.

  Leading his horse, Maximus emerged into the glade and his heart slammed against his ribs at the ethereal scene. The gathering dusk swirled, but a dozen small lanterns were arranged in an oddly compressed cluster, the flickering golden flames and aromatic curling smoke enhancing the mystical creature who stood in the center.

  He tethered his horse, his eyes never leaving her face. Raw lust tightened his loins, lengthened his shaft, and without further hesitation he stepped toward her.

  For one dizzying moment the world undulated, as if suddenly plunged beneath clear water. The effect froze the breath in his lungs and sent eerie shivers chasing along the back of his neck, but before his brain could make sense of the phenomenon, it had passed and once again the world was steady, solid.

  And his Celt awaited him.

  She moved, but not toward him. Instead she walked around the perimeter of the perfect circle formed by her delicate lanterns, a spacious circle, as if the land had expanded between one breath and the next—gods, he was half-blinded by lust—until she paused before the gap through which he’d entered. She knelt, still keeping him within her line of vision, and placed a small rock on the ground between the two lanterns.

  His soldier’s mind sharpened at her action, an insistent dagger in his cortex, demanding answers. Instinctively feeling that something beyond his understanding was happening. And her lanterns had definitely clustered around her feet as he’d approached.

  But it was fleeting, instantly obliterated by the knowledge that the woman who had invaded his life two days ago and refused to leave was now within his power.

  Without a word he held out his hand. Was it his imagination or did she hesitate for a moment? But then her hand was in his, small, fragile. He curved his fingers around her, holding her captive.

  “My wood nymph.” In this setting, how could she be anything else? He kissed her fingers, his gaze meshed with hers, and the glow from the lanterns and the strange luminous smoke made it hard to distinguish the fantastical colors of her eyes.

  “My Roman invader.” Her voice was breathless, seductive, as if his slightest touch was enough to arouse. The knowledge pleased him. He pulled her forward.

  “I wish only to invade you in the most pleasurable of ways.” He watched her pupils expand, dark passion rising. For him. “Unbind your hair.” He wanted to see her hair falling loose over her shoulders. Needed to feel the silken curls slide through his fingers.

  “You unbind it.” Her whisper broke into his erotic fantasies. A smile curved his lips.

  “You argue with me, even now?”

  She looked up at him. He’d forgotten how diminutive she was. How infinitely dainty, as if she did indeed possess the blood of a nymph.

  “I think I’d like to feel you unbind my hair.” Her confession stirred his already heated blood, and his smile evolved into a grin.

  “Then how can I refuse?” He released her hand and turned her around, and tugged on the soft length of leather at the end of her braid.

  Dropping the leather to the ground, he slid a finger between her bound tresses and teased them free. There were no strands of jewels threaded through tonight. Her soft hair slipped over his fingers. Strangely sensuous. He continued up her braid, releasing each segment with slow deliberation until he reached her nape. Without warning, she shook her head, and her hair shimmered in the lantern light, a glowing river of living gold.

  He stepped back. Her hair skimmed the curve of her buttocks, longer than he had imagined. And infinitely more beautiful.

  She looked over her shoulder, her face framed by curling strands of exotic silk.

  “Did that please you, my lady?” His voice was husky with need. But he would play her games for a little longer, if that amused her.

  “Yes.” A simple word, and yet it possessed the power to spike unadulterated lust through his groin, painful in its suddenness, in its shredding intensity.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to play her word games for much longer. He cupped her jaw, soft skin over fragile bone.

  “Come here.” He accompanied his words with pressure, forcing her to turn and face him. “Do you intend to talk all night?”

  “I’m not the one talking, Maximus.” Her fingers traced over his, as he held her face in the palm of his hand.

  He laughed, despite the throbbing agony between his legs. “Can you never open your mouth without contradicting me?”

  And then he imagined her open mouth enclosing him. Gods, that would still her incessant chatter. He resisted the instinctive urge to thrust her to her knees, to demand she satisfy his clawing need.

  There was time yet to satisfy both their needs.

  “Would you truly want me to agree with everything you say?” She trailed her fingers along his jaw, as if the texture of his skin intrigued her. And then she reached up onto her toes and repeated her actions over his head.

  He lowered his head for her, amused both by her words and her obvious fascination with his hair. Women had often run their fingers over his head, but never with such a look of awe on their faces.

  And although he couldn’t imagine why his hair so entranced her, he found her obvious fascination oddly erotic.

  “It makes life a lot simpler when a woman obeys her man without question.” He raised one eyebrow, waiting for her response. Knowing his proud Celt would never allow such a statement to pass by unchallenged.

  Her fingers stilled in his hair. He saw her struggle to keep the smile from her face. And then she trailed her finger over his brow, along the length of his nose and across the seam of his lips.

  “Are you my man, Maximus?” Her fing
er paused at the corner of his mouth. So temptingly close, he could almost taste her sweet flesh.

  “For tonight, my lady, I’m all yours.” His hand slid from her face to clasp her nape. “And you are mine.”

  Carys wrapped his words around her heart, savoring them, secreting them away in hidden corners of her mind. She knew he spoke in lust, but it didn’t matter. She could imagine he wanted more than raw sex tonight, could pretend he was driven by emotions more sacred than pure masculine need.

  “For tonight,” she whispered, just so he knew they were equal on that point. Although the truth was she wouldn’t mind being his for eternity. If only that wasn’t such an impossible dream.

  He gave a low laugh. “Always you must have the last word. Very well, we are each other’s for tonight, if that appeases you, my lady.”

  Before she could assure him it did, he captured her lips, as if anticipating her thoughts, but thoughts no longer mattered, not when her Roman held her in such a close embrace, or teased her willing mouth with his tongue and nipped her tender flesh with his teeth.

  Shivers skittered along her skin, hot shivers that mirrored the heat in her blood, the fire in her womb. She flattened her palm against his broad chest, delighting in the hard muscle beneath his linen tunic, the thunder of his heart against her fingers.

  She slid her arms around his body. Granite strength and primal power radiated from every pore, thrilling her feminine senses, making her feel safe. Protected.

  And yet she was the one who protected them both from untoward attack, here inside her own sacred circle.

  Her Roman could never discover such magic.

  She pushed it from her mind, concentrated on the moment, on having him in her arms, of feeling his hard body surround her.

  Concentrated on the spiraling sensations spinning at the juncture of her thighs. Such sweet, terrifying sensations, part pleasure, part pain. And wholly exhilarating.

  “I want you naked.” His breath was hot against her swollen lips. “Your naked flesh against my naked flesh.” He drew back, only far enough to stare into her eyes. “I want to strip you, my lady. Strip every garment from your body.”

  Liquid heat flooded her pussy at the wild look in his eyes, at the passion in his words and the way his hands covered her buttocks in a hard, possessive hold.

  He hadn’t asked permission. And yet, in his way, he had. She drew in a shuddering breath, caught the strange scent of his foreign soap, so unlike the scent of flowers her people used, and yet shockingly arousing by its very difference.

  “I want to strip you too.” She could barely speak, her heart hammered so violently against her lungs, and yet he heard, for she saw his predatory smile.

  “No.” He covered her hand as she attempted to loosen his tunic, and his other hand molded the curve of her bottom. “Not yet.”

  He began to unthread the laces of her gown. For such a large man he managed such an intricate task with dexterity. She glanced down at his fingers as they loosened her clothing, then up into his face. He caught her eye and gave her a disarming smile that sank into her soul.

  His fingers slid to her shoulders and slowly eased her gown over her arms. The night was mild, but still she shivered as the air caressed her naked flesh. Another moment and he exposed her breasts to his view, and Carys hitched her breath, part with nerves, part anticipation.

  For an eternity he gazed at her, and the heat emanating from him warmed her skin, and the shivers became tremors of need.

  “Don’t fear me.” His voice was husky, and he trailed one finger across the swell of her breast, and gently circled her sensitive areola.

  She gasped and clenched her fists. How could so fleeting a touch ignite such fierce desire?

  “See how your nipples crave my touch?” He grazed the tip of his finger across her erect peak and she dug her teeth into her lower lip to stop herself from crying out.

  She wanted to touch him. But she was bound by her own gown, her arms trapped by her sides. Sweet torture.

  Slowly he lowered his dark head. His lips brushed across her throbbing bud. Then retraced his sensual path, this time with the tip of his tongue. Hot. Wet. And when he looked up at her, abandoning her aching breast, the air skittered over her damp skin, and again her limbs quivered with reaction.

  “My lady.” Desire vibrated his voice, hummed in the space between them. He inched her gown over her arms, exposing her belly. She caught her breath as his hands skimmed her hips, and then her gown slithered without hindrance to the grass.

  Sweet Cerridwen. She was naked before him. Flame flared between her thighs as she saw him look at her there, at the place she wanted him to look. To touch and stroke and make her feel everything she had only ever experienced in the sanctuary of her own mind and familiarity of her own hands.

  He inhaled a ragged breath before tearing his gaze from her pussy. “You’re more beautiful than I imagined.”

  The tip of her tongue dampened her dry lips. Now was the time to pose provocatively, flutter her eyelashes and tease him by playing with her nipples and her clit.

  All this she knew. And yet she remained immobile before his scorching gaze, paralyzed by the intensity of the moment.

  He cradled her face. Had she imagined that slight tremble? Surely her Roman would never tremble before her. And yet he had. And the knowledge thrilled.

  Chapter 7

  “You’ve haunted my thoughts since the first moment I saw you.” His voice was oddly hushed, and his thumb gently caressed her cheek. “I’ve wanted this. But I don’t want you to be afraid of me, lady.”

  She swallowed, so hard when her mouth was as dry as the leaves in autumn. Perhaps every drop of moisture in her body had gathered between her thighs.

  Instinctively she pressed her knees together, but that only increased pressure on her clit, and she gave another involuntary shudder.

  “I’m not afraid of you, Maximus.” Her voice didn’t sound like her own. So breathless. So aroused. She pressed her face against his hand, to show him how much she craved his touch, and was rewarded when he once again resumed gently stroking her heated skin.

  “And yet you tremble like a virgin on her wedding night.” His fingers stilled, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “You’re not a virgin, are you, my lady?”

  How could he think such of her? Despite her nakedness she drew herself up proudly. “I am not.” His insult stung, but perhaps he didn’t realize what his question implied.

  She took a deep breath and noticed how his attention slipped to watch her breasts. “Maximus.”

  When he didn’t immediately return his focus to her face, she cupped his jaw, until he once again looked at her.

  “I’m a Celtic woman,” she told him. “I worship the goddess and all her gifts she bestows upon us.”

  Just because she hadn’t enjoyed those gifts while Aeron grunted over her didn’t mean she had ignored the goddess. At least whenever she pleasured herself she never experienced discomfort or dull dissatisfaction. But Maximus didn’t need to know that.

  “The goddess?” Confusion briefly clouded his features, as if he didn’t know to whom or what she referred. She reminded herself he was Roman. His ways were different from hers.

  “I offered my virginity to the goddess six years ago,” she said, just to clarify that she was a woman and not a girl. He may not have intended to slight her. Her knowledgeable tutor had explained how Roman men idealized girls ignorant of the goddess’ delights, but the slight rankled nevertheless. “I tremble with need for you, not from fear of you.”

  The tense expression hardening his features relaxed and a smile of pure masculine pride curved his lips. Carys smiled back, relieved he had believed her. For as much as she wanted to take everything this Roman had to offer her, a part of her did fear.

  Feared that, even with him, she might be unable to attain the heights of pleasure for which she so longed.

  With great economy, Maximus shed his cloak and tunic. “Touch me,” he
commanded, but his hand was gentle as he trailed his fingers along the line of her jaw.

  Touch him? She wanted to feast upon him. Greedily she devoured his well-defined muscles, the tawny gleam of his skin that the lanterns enhanced to a mystical glow, and traced her finger over one of his many battle scars.

  He made an odd sound in the back of his throat, and she glanced up at him, frowning. “Did I hurt?” She couldn’t decipher whether he had groaned from pain or—but surely not—stifled a laugh.

  His lips twitched and he appeared on the verge of saying something. But then he shook his head.

  She flattened her palm against his warm skin, thrilling to the masculine texture of flesh and hair. “I don’t wish to hurt you,” she said, knowing she wasn’t, knowing she could never hurt this Roman even if she wanted such a thing. But it felt strangely erotic to turn his words back on him.

  “Nothing you do could possibly hurt me.” His body was tense beneath her hand, as if he held his base male instincts under iron control. “You may well kill me, but you won’t hurt me.”

  Carys glided both hands over his chest, delighting in the way his hair tickled her palms. The sensations shimmered along her fingers, along her arm, and tightened her erect nipples still further.

  “I won’t kill you.” She reached up, caressed his shoulders, then skimmed her hands along his firm biceps. “You have a beautiful body.” Even she could hear the awe in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. He had a body made for worship. And she was willing to pay homage.

  He gripped her arms and pulled her roughly to him. “My body is ready for yours.” Raw lust sprang from every syllable. “Play with me later, my lady. Allow us to slake our desire first.”

  Her breasts crushed against his chest. She gave an experimental wriggle, and her nipples chafed against his rough hair. “Yes.” She whispered the word against his shoulder and then looked up. “Yes.”

  Large hands roamed over her back, exploring every dip of her waist and swell of her buttocks. “I’ll fuck you as no man has ever fucked you before.”