Tainted

by Christina Phillips

  “Then your uptight moralistic husband disapproves of my debauchery when it concerns the lady Antonia.”

  Carys smirked. “Maximus is not uptight.” Then she sighed. “He doesn’t approve. But he would rather you meet here, where it is safe, than in a sordid tavern.”

  Gawain kept his mouth shut. He should have known Carys had told Maximus of that. Carys told her Roman everything. It was the reason he had no intention of telling her about Rhys or the discovery of Druids in Camulodunon. Not that he doubted her loyalty. But Carys’ loyalty was continually torn between the heritage of her birth and the devotion she bore for her husband.

  She would never betray her people. But keeping such a secret from Maximus would destroy her.

  He took a deep breath and moved on. “Then what unsavory news do you have for me?”

  She pulled a face. “The praetor somehow discovered your existence and extended the invitation to you to his feast tomorrow night.”

  Gawain snorted in disbelief. Spend an entire night in the company of that arrogant, Druid-hating bastard? Not to mention the overly familiar way he had approached Antonia the other day. The next time they’d met, she had explained he was an acquaintance of her former husband but that certainly hadn’t done anything to elevate Gawain’s opinion of him. “I’m busy.”

  Carys gave him an insincere smile. “Doing what?”

  He grinned back. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “That’s unfortunate.” Carys brushed nonexistent dust from her gown and then shot him a sly sideways look. “His other guests are Antonia and her father.”

  His amusement fled. Why hadn’t Antonia told him? Logically he knew she had no reason to tell him such a thing. For all he knew she might dine with various high ranking politicians every night. He had never considered it before. And now the thought had occurred to him, he discovered the possibility irritated the fuck out of him.

  He also realized he had no intention of passing up the opportunity of spending an evening with Antonia in a social gathering. It would give him the chance to observe the praetor, to discover whether his only interest in Antonia was, as she had gone to great pains to stress, merely that of an old friend.

  “In that case,” he stared at Carys, daring her to comment. “I’ll cancel my previous engagement and attend this cursed feast.”

  “I thought you might.” Carys patted his foot before standing up. “And now I am off to collect my wager from Maximus. He was certain you would refuse the invitation.”

  It was only when the door swung shut behind Carys that a discordant thought thudded through Gawain’s mind. Why did he care what interest the praetor had in Antonia? He knew she would never take another lover while they were together. And when their affair ended, she could do as she wished.

  But the sense of unease, of something off kilter lingered, and he could not place it. He only knew that the thought of that bastard Roman touching her curdled his guts.

  Antonia threaded the brightly colored silk ribbons through her fingers as the stall keeper urged her to buy one of each shade at an exorbitant price. Tonight she and her father were to dine with the praetor and she wasn’t looking forward to it. Especially since her father appeared to think the evening was a precursor to the praetor declaring his intentions toward her.

  Well. He could declare all he liked. She had given him no encouragement and there was nothing he could say or do that would change her mind. And that was assuming her father had not misunderstood the praetor in the first place.

  She returned her wandering attention to the ribbons. “The blue will suit Cassia perfectly, won’t it?” She glanced at Elpis by her side. “The shade matches her eyes exactly.”

  “She has your eyes, domina,” Elpis said, her voice warm with affection. But who could fail to love little Cassia? She was a gift from Juno herself and no one who met her could fail to fall under her spell.

  In less than three weeks, she would arrive in Britannia, along with the guardians Antonia had entrusted her daughter’s safety to for the last year. Last night she had broached the subject of adoption with her father. He had been bemused, then awkwardly sympathetic and she knew he was thinking of the babes she had lost during her marriage.

  But he had never known of her final pregnancy. By then she had been too heartsore by her losses to risk raising her father’s hopes once more.

  Eventually he’d murmured something about how she would have her own children one day, when she remarried, and had then lapsed into a brooding silence when she’d gently told him she desired no such thing.

  The seed had been sown. Antonia knew she could persuade him. And when Cassia arrived, her father would already be half in love with her and unable to do anything but fall in with Antonia’s plans.

  An odd prickle drifted across the back of her neck and she frowned and glanced over her shoulder. Her heart leaped in her breast and warmth flooded her heart as, through a gap in the crowd, she saw Gawain at the other side of the forum.

  She knew she was smiling. Knew she should try to be more circumspect but she couldn’t help it. Just looking at him caused her pulses to race. It had been two days since they had last been together, and she wouldn’t see him again until tomorrow.

  The truth was stark. She had missed him. Missed the mocking glitter in his eyes, the deep rumble of his laugh, his enchanting accent when he talked. Ah, how she enjoyed their conversations. No subject was taboo. Roman politics, Celtic tribal traditions and the cycle of feminine indispositions. She had almost choked on the delicacies Carys had provided when Gawain had casually touched on that. But he’d been respectful, interested and shockingly informative and his uninhibited attitude delighted her.

  A whisper of unease drifted through her mind. Even though she tried to ignore it, the thought weaved into her consciousness nevertheless.

  Conversation was not the reason she was supposed to crave Gawain’s company. It was all about the sex. Lust. And yes, she missed his body, missed the way his hands and mouth made her feel but it was so much more than that.

  It did not mean anything. So she liked him. Perhaps she liked him far more than she should for her peace of mind. But when she’d embarked on this liaison, she hadn’t imagined he possessed such a complex, intriguing personality.

  Three more weeks and the affair would end. She took a deep breath and attempted to banish the inevitable. She would not think of that. Not until the last possible moment.

  She passed the ribbons to Elpis to deal with and rose onto her toes to keep Gawain in her sight as the throng of bodies threatened to conceal him. Although he looked relaxed, a strange tenseness clung to him, as though he searched for someone without wishing to give himself away. Illicit thrills raced through her. Was he searching for her?

  Perhaps they could steal an hour to be together. She took a couple of steps in his direction and then paused. Gawain’s gaze locked for a brief moment on something across the square and instinctively Antonia followed his glance.

  An eerie shiver scuttled along her arms although she could not fathom why. There was nothing unusual over there. Except for a fleeting instance, she had the absolute certainty that an unspoken message had passed between Gawain and a huge man dressed in peasant clothing.

  Already the stranger had vanished into the crowd and she shook her head, attempting to dislodge the foolish unease that drifted through her mind. There had been no unspoken connection. And even if there had, what did it matter? Gawain was entitled to communicate with whomever he wished. Even if across the crowded forum was an unusual way to do it.

  Even if the entire exchange did have a dark aura of furtiveness about it.

  She huffed out a breath and returned her attention to Gawain. But he, too, had vanished.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Antonia stared in disbelief as Gawain entered the praetor’s atrium, along with Carys and her tribune. It had never occurred to her that he might attend. Why hadn’t he told her?

  As pleasantries were exchanged,
she tried to stop staring but was not sure she succeeded. But he looked so magnificent, in spite of the foreign clothes he insisted on wearing. Or perhaps because of them. They certainly enhanced the seductive aura of primal power that radiated from him, without him making the slightest effort to impress.

  Or perhaps she was simply biased.

  He certainly gave the impression that they were scarcely acquainted, offering her a formal half bow that turned her knees weak. It was just as well he hadn’t touched her. She would likely dissolve into a puddle of mindless desire at his feet.

  The image caused a wayward giggle to escape, and she hastily turned it into a cough before her lust disgraced her father’s name.

  “Allow me the honor of escorting you, Lady Antonia,” the praetor said, taking her arm before she could bestow such honor his way. She resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder at Gawain. She might have imagined it, but when he had asked about her relationship with the praetor, she’d received the oddest impression that he had been jealous.

  A foolish supposition. She did not want Gawain to be jealous and why should he, in any case? Yet the feeling lingered and try as she might, she couldn’t deny the frisson of pleasure at the knowledge Gawain did not like the praetor’s over-possessive attitude.

  “This townhouse is not up to the standards of those in other provinces,” he said as he led them into the dining room. “The quality of the mosaics is most disappointing but what can you expect from this barbarous land?”

  Antonia sank onto one of the low couches and glanced at the other guests. Carys glared murder at the praetor’s back, her husband held her hand as though he feared she might follow through and Gawain’s face was impassive.

  Her father simply looked resigned.

  “Such workmanship takes years to perfect,” she said, silently astonished at the way Carys schooled her features and once again looked like the perfect patrician wife. “Once local craftsmen have the opportunity to study under the masters then they too will be able to create art to rival any in Rome.”

  The corner of Gawain’s mouth twitched in obvious amusement at her counterstrike. It was only as she resisted the urge to smile back at him that she realized she had been staring at him.

  “Very true.” The praetor nodded sagely and indicated his slaves should begin serving. “This is, after all, only a temporary lodging. Should I decide to remain in Camulodunum I’ll have a villa built to my own specifications.”

  Antonia’s heart sank at the reminder that he might choose to stay in Camulodunum. Could she persuade her father to return to Gallia, to the town where she had grown up? He had only moved to Britannia when it became clear luxury goods were highly sought after by the newly settled Romans.

  Despite her best intentions, once again she glanced at Gawain. If she moved to Gallia she would never see him again.

  But as soon as Cassia arrived, their affair would end in any case. What difference would it make where she decided to live?

  She tore her hypnotized stare from the oblivious Cambrian who sat upright on the opposite couch as if he were a royal chieftain entertaining a gaggle of lowly plebeians. She concentrated on a dish of dormice, sprinkled with honey and poppy seeds, which had been placed on the low table and tried to regulate her galloping thoughts.

  When it came to Gawain, it made no difference where she lived. Except if she stayed in Camulodunum the chances were high that she would continue to see him. How could she not, if she and Carys maintained the tenuous friendship that was forming between them?

  She would see him with other women. A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach. It did not matter. Yet she knew it did. Because the harsh truth was—she didn’t want Gawain being with any woman but her.

  Antonia acknowledged that the feast was sumptuous. The praetor had obviously spared no expense and it was clear this was a feast designed to impress. But who was he trying to impress? Surely not her. And in his eyes, her father, a mere plebeian, was tolerated only because his vast network of contacts across the empire enabled him to source any luxury requested.

  The tribune, then? She gave Maximus a surreptitious glance. It did not seem likely. Although Carys’ husband came from one of the premier families of the Senate, so too did the praetor.

  “When are you returning to Rome, Maximus?” the praetor asked as slaves served the next course—a magnificent swan accompanied by a dozen different imported vegetables. “You are well overdue for promotion. I cannot fathom why you’ve remained in Britannia for so long.”

  “Extraordinary circumstances,” Maximus said. “But I will be taking my wife and daughter to Rome very shortly.”

  Of course. Antonia had forgotten that Carys would soon be leaving Camulodunum. So much for the friendship she had imagined them forging. But wasn’t this better? At least then there would be less chance of accidentally crossing paths with Gawain.

  It was better. But she could not embrace the knowledge.

  “Your beauty will dazzle the jaded in Rome, my lady,” the praetor said, bestowing a benevolent smile in Carys’ direction. Carys offered him a tight smile in return, but Antonia knew that beneath that calm façade the other woman was seething.

  A prickle of sympathy for the praetor shot through her breast. He was condescending to those he considered his social inferiors but, conversely, Antonia also knew that he was sincere in his compliment to Carys. Unfortunately for him, he had no idea that his perception of what constituted a compliment struck at the heart of Carys’ true nature.

  A shiver trickled along her spine. What did she mean by her true nature? Antonia knew the Roman noblewoman persona that Carys presented to the world was merely a guise. But it was no great secret that Carys was a foreign princess of a conquered land. So why had that thought not only slid into her mind but remained with insidious intent?

  As if there were more to Carys than Antonia imagined?

  Gawain restrained himself from responding to the pompous old fuck’s remark, but only by filling his mouth with food that he didn’t even recognize. He looked over at Antonia but as always, she looked perfectly serene. Whereas he’d been battling a cursed erection from the moment he had seen her in the atrium, she had remained cool and aloof, bestowing barely a chilly glance in his direction.

  Gingerly he shifted position on the couch but it scarcely eased his discomfort. Only Antonia could do that. And he had every intention of ensuring she did so before this night was over.

  It gave him dark amusement to know how responsive and uninhibited his reserved Roman noblewoman was when there was no one else around. Erotic images burned his mind and it was only with difficulty that he dragged himself back to the present.

  Time enough later to indulge his fantasies.

  The praetor was still droning on. “But doubtless in time you will provide Rome with many fine sons.”

  Gawain choked and hastily tipped his goblet of wine down his throat. Intentionally or not, the Roman had just unforgivably insulted Carys by insinuating her daughter was less worthy than a son might be. There was no way she would let that comment pass.

  “If the gods decree it,” Maximus said, sliding his fingers through Carys’. “If not, then I consider myself more than blessed to have a beautiful, healthy daughter.”

  It galled, but the longer Gawain spent in Maximus’ company the more he could understand why Carys had fallen for him. From his experience, not many Roman men would defend their daughter in such a way.

  He glanced at Antonia. She was staring at Maximus, a stricken look on her face, as though he had just predicted the end of the empire. His senses sharpened. He knew Antonia had borne children but he had never asked her about them. Did they reside with her at her father’s?

  Or had she been forced to leave them behind in Rome?

  Whichever the outcome, her reaction told him volumes. Her former husband had not considered his daughters a blessing.

  He wrenched his attention from her and looked at the praetor. “In our culture, our
daughters are valued as highly as our sons.”

  The praetor offered him a perfunctory smile. “I am fortunate that the gods blessed me with three sons. But I have always privately wished for a daughter to dote upon.”

  Gawain watched in disbelief as the praetor glanced at Antonia. Disbelief surged into outrage. Was he seriously suggesting that he wanted to sire a daughter with Antonia?

  He glared in her direction but she was focused on her hands and once again, her true feelings were masked by that serene façade. She appeared unaware of both the praetor’s implication and his own ire. But one thing was for sure—whatever Antonia might imagine, the praetor wanted far more from her than mere friendship.

  The interminable feast continued through the evening. Antonia dutifully tried each dish, but everything tasted of ashes. She could try to fool herself but the truth was painfully clear.

  The praetor had declared his intent.

  It wasn’t merely the way he kept glancing at her, or brushed his fingers across hers at every opportunity. He had openly stated his desire for a daughter, when he knew of her past history and of Scipio’s reaction to the daughters she had struggled to give birth to.

  The thought of enduring another pregnancy, only for it to end in heartbreak and disaster, caused nausea to roil in her breast.

  But that would never happen. She would never remarry and be at the mercy of another man’s obsessive desire to produce a son.

  Or daughter.

  The conversation flowed over her, a distant murmur. Several times the praetor attempted to engage her but the most she could manage was a polite, monosyllabic response. With every moment that passed, her unease mounted. If she did not manage to deflect his interest before Cassia arrived, how could she hope to keep her child’s existence a secret?

  “Gawain.” The praetor’s voice jolted her back to the present. “You are blood kin to the tribune’s wife, is that correct?”

  “Kin, but not blood bound.”