Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3)

by Christina Phillips

  Marcellus finally tore his gaze from the girl’s face and looked at Tacitus.

  “Why? Is she someone of import?”

  “Yes. She’s mine.” But not officially.

  Marcellus raised his eyebrows. “Your slave?” He sounded skeptical.

  “Yes.” They both knew it was a lie. But Tacitus would pay well for the special treatment. They both knew that too.

  “If you say so.” Marcellus indicated that Tacitus should follow him. “The conditions here are primitive but I’ll do my best.” He opened a flap in the side of the tent that led into what Tacitus assumed had to be an operating room. Except it wasn’t a room, it was another fucking tent.

  With reluctance, he laid the Celt on the operating table, positioning her on a pile of cloths to reduce unnecessary pressure on her injured shoulder. Then he folded his arms and swept a condemning glance around. Primitive was putting it mildly. Barbaric was the term he’d use to describe the conditions.

  Marcellus hitched open the flap and Tacitus heard him order for assistance, instruments and whatever else he needed. Then the physician turned back to him.

  “You can go now,” Marcellus said. He went to the Celt’s side and sliced through the sleeveless leather waist tunic she wore over her pale green woolen gown. The leather had stopped the arrow from going right through her shoulder, which was a relief. Had she not been wearing the short tunic, her injury would be far worse. “I’ll send a messenger to inform you of the outcome.”

  “I’m staying.”

  Marcellus looked up, a frown darkening his brow. “This is my area of expertise, Tacitus. I don’t want or need you here.”

  An auxiliary medic entered, bringing the requisites Marcellus had ordered. Tacitus’ lip curled. Did Marcellus really think he’d leave his vulnerable water sprite alone with two men?

  “Just get on with it.”

  Marcellus swore under his breath, but obviously decided this was a battle he was doomed to lose. He turned back to his patient and began to peel her stained gown over her breast.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Tacitus snatched the material and pulled it roughly over her breast. And tried not to think about the tantalizing glimpse of pale, luscious flesh or rosy nipple Marcellus had so callously exposed to view.

  Marcellus jabbed his scalpel in Tacitus’ face.

  “Shut up or get out.” He sounded irritated. “I’m a physician. I’ve seen naked women before without experiencing the animalistic urge to rut with them. Now do you want me to try to save this slave of yours or not?”

  Tacitus gritted his teeth, clenched his fists and refolded his arms.

  And managed to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the procedure.

  Chapter Three

  Nimue was back in the forest of her childhood, in the sacred oak grove, watching her mother give sacrifice to the most powerful Goddess of them all.

  She looked up into the night sky. The full moon, as bright as if it were illuminated by a thousand candles, dominated her vision and awe filled her soul at the breathtaking beauty.

  Arianrhod, let me be worthy.

  Her mother beckoned Nimue to join her in the center of the glade where all the women of their clan waited. Heart pounding with a combination of fear and pride, Nimue obeyed. Instantly, the other women encircled her and removed her gown until she was as naked as them.

  They raised their arms, chanted the ancient rites to their foremothers and gave thanks for the Goddess’ blessing upon Nimue.

  Today, her first moon time had occurred. A great blessing indeed, to take the first step on the path of womanhood when the full moon glowed in a cloudless sky. A sign that Nimue had, without doubt, been accepted and chosen by the Goddess she adored.

  This was the happiest day of her life. The proudest moment she had yet experienced. But something—something was wrong. Something had happened that had taken this moment and shattered it, destroyed it, tarnished its beauty and wonder forevermore.

  Something that had changed the course of her life and twisted the future she had always believed her birthright. Just as surely as my destined path has been irrevocably altered today.

  Jagged pain lanced through her body and the sacred grove shimmered, as if it had been plunged into a bottomless pool of glimmering water. She struggled for air, clawing through the grasping tendrils of fog that wrapped around her. For one tangled moment, she thought she saw a tough warrior above her, his hypnotic eyes gazing at her intently, trying to infuse her with additional strength.

  Without knowing why, she tried to reach for him but her limbs were heavy and uncoordinated. Desperately she thrashed her head from side to side, trying to escape from unseen restraints. Then, from the dark corners in her mind, a shadow walked unerringly toward her. And then it was no longer a shadow as, from nowhere, a shaft of sunlight surrounded the figure. Disbelief speared through her as, without knowing how she knew, she recognized him as one of the most powerful gods of her people.

  Gwydion, warrior magician, in all his youthful glory, smiled down at her. Terror froze her to the spot, but the god did not appear to mind her lack of reverence.

  What does Gwydion want with me? She had always given him due reverence when she worshipped the gods of Annwyn on their sacred days. But he had never shown her any preference before. She had never experienced any special affinity with him, the Greatest of the Enchanters. To her knowledge, Gwydion had never bestowed his benevolence on a female Druid nor taken one as his blessed acolyte. That he had appeared to her now was utterly terrifying.

  “Nimue, acolyte of my sister goddess Arianrhod, you are truly a chosen one.” His voice echoed in her mind, vibrating with power. She fell to her knees, holding her head, fearful her mind might collapse under the unwanted invasion. “The High Druid Aeron comes to you. Return what you have taken.”

  Nimue forced her eyes open and peered up at the magnificent, glowing god. He extended his hand toward her, uncurled his fingers and showed her what he held.

  Mesmerized, she stared at his palm. He held the shard of sacred bluestone she had taken from the magical enclave.

  ***

  Nimue wondered at the lethargy that clung to her limbs and clouded her mind. A dull throbbing encased her shoulder and arm and her head was oddly light, as though it did not quite belong to her body.

  Where am I? Scarlet and black flickered across her vision and it was simply too much effort to open her eyes.

  And then a pinprick of awareness glowed in the welcoming embrace of oblivion.

  I have to protect the Briton queen. The memory was jagged, bright as a Druid’s blade, and sliced through her languor with a deadly knowledge. Goddess, where’s the queen?

  Unease stirred as fragmented recollections jarred her mind before coalescing into one shocking, indisputable fact.

  She had been captured.

  White fury steamed through her blood, once again obliterating the physical pain. Her body didn’t want to cooperate, but she dragged open her eyes. And saw the face of the one who had caught her so unforgivably unawares.

  Her tongue felt swollen, her throat parched. But she focused on him, drawing on what little reserves she possessed and finally, while he continued to frown down at her in apparent incomprehension, she managed to locate her voice.

  “Spineless Roman.” The words were little more than a wheeze, but she knew he heard. Knew he understood. Because his frown intensified and he looked as if he might take issue with her accusation. But she hadn’t finished yet. “How dare you drug me?” She hitched in a harsh gasp of air. “I’ll kill you for dishonoring me so.”

  He continued to glare down at her. “Why has she awoken? Can she feel anything?”

  She reached for his throat, but only her right arm appeared to belong to her, and even that did not fully obey her commands. Instead, the Roman took her hand in his, and if he had been anyone else, his touch might have been considered comforting.

  “She’s not fully conscious.” The other voice sounded
unconcerned. “She won’t recall a thing, Tacitus.”

  The Roman’s large hand still held hers. A maelstrom of pain and humiliation disoriented her senses. But still she was aware of the strange tingle that attacked her trapped fingers.

  A muted sense of alarm washed through her. She attempted to pull from his clasp, but all she managed to achieve was for him to tighten his grip. But it wasn’t his arrogant possessiveness that caused her pulses to flutter or her heart to hammer against her ribs. It was the realization that his touch did not repel her.

  Raw panic kicked deep in her gut, sloughing off the lingering remnants of whatever foreign drugs they had forced into her body. What else have they forced into my body? While she had been oblivious, how many of the enemy had raped her?

  ***

  “Can’t you give her more?” Tacitus shot Marcellus a black glare. “She’s having a seizure.”

  “No, she isn’t. She’s slipping back into unconsciousness. All she needs is some rest and then she’s all yours.”

  “Filthy…coward,” the Celt gasped, her glazed eyes locked with his. “Taking me when I could not…couldn’t defend myself…”

  “Go back to sleep.” He didn’t know if she could hear him or not. Despite Marcellus’ assurances that she spoke through the opium and neither understood the words she uttered or would recall them afterward, he had his doubts. She appeared lucid enough.

  “Slice your balls from your maggot infested crotch… Putrefy your…rancid cock…”

  With his free hand, he brushed her hair back from her face. Her eyes were losing focus and her nails were no longer gouging into his hand. There was no longer any doubt in his mind.

  She spoke through the poppy. Not because her coarse language did not befit her evident status. But because had she been fully aware of her surroundings she would never have uttered such threats to her perceived captor.

  For all she knew, it would be suicide.

  “How soon can she be moved?” He had only a tent in this temporary camp but at least it was private. And he could set a legionary on guard to ensure her continued safety. Here, in the valetudinarium, he could ensure no such thing.

  “Not before morning.”

  Tacitus finally dragged his gaze from the Celt’s unnaturally pale face and looked at his friend.

  “She’s not staying in here overnight.” And he needed to get to the quaestorium. There was no doubt in his mind he could negotiate the purchase of this Celt with the administrator. With his connections and the price he was prepared to offer, along with the fact the slave in question was injured and therefore damaged goods, the administrator would have no cause to refuse.

  Only then would she be safe from the fate that awaited every other female slave rounded up this day.

  She would also be safe from his cousin. And his commander.

  “I don’t run a brothel.” Irritation soured Marcellus’ words. “Any man found abusing one of my patients goes under the lash.”

  Not if the abuser was a fellow officer. But it was irrelevant. She was not going to stay here overnight.

  “I need to report in.” But not until he’d settled this matter. Only when the Celt legally belonged to him would he report to the commander of his Legion.

  “I’m sure you do.” It was obvious Marcellus knew exactly what Tacitus had in mind. “And in the meantime you expect me to ensure your concubine remains inviolate.”

  “She’s not my concubine.” The words were a growl. Because if she hadn’t been injured, if he had persuaded her to surrender into his protection, he had the feeling he might well have made her his concubine for the duration of their affair.

  Of course he would. It would have been the only way to ensure no other man took what he had already claimed.

  Marcellus stared at him. “You risk opening the wound if you have her tonight.”

  Tacitus had no intention of having her tonight. Irked that Marcellus felt the need to even state such an obvious warning he merely maintained eye contact until the other man shrugged in obvious irritation.

  “Go and conduct your business. I’ll ensure it’s known the slave belongs to you, and should any harm befall her, the mighty Lucius Marius Tacitus will not allow it to go unpunished.”

  The words were caustic but the pledge satisfactory. With one last fleeting glance at his Celt, Tacitus left the tent to face the unsavory task of buying her.

  Chapter Four

  Nimue hitched in a harsh breath and blackness engulfed her. A dream. A memory.

  A vision?

  Already the details were fading, becoming obscure and fluttering through her mind like petals in a summer breeze. Strong arms held her against a solid chest and now she became aware of moving.

  She was being carried. Instantly her eyes flew open, only to be confronted by an expanse of white tunic stretched across impressive shoulders. The Roman. Jumbled images cascaded across her mind. They had spoken by the stream. She had been shot. And then…

  Then what? The uncanny sensation of urgency, of needing to accomplish something of utmost importance gnawed the edges of her mind. She could almost recall and yet the details eluded her. And what was worse, she almost did not care. Her senses were pleasantly numbed.

  She shifted and tried to see his face, but his hold on her was so secure she could scarcely move at all.

  “Be still.” His deep voice rumbled in his chest and caused tremors to flutter deep in her womb. “We’re almost at my quarters. Then you can rest.”

  “Rest.” Her voice sounded strange to her ears. Only then did she realize his hand grazed the curve of her breast as he held her against his body. She should have been enraged. But instead, heat radiated from the contact, spreading across her skin and tightening her nipple until the ache consumed her entire body.

  She groaned, eyelids fluttering. She wanted his hand cradling her breast, his thumb circling her throbbing nipple. It was more than a want. It was an overriding need.

  Her left arm was immobilized, and so she dragged her right arm up from where it nestled between the length of her body and the Roman’s. Goddess, if she didn’t know better, she would imagine he was a fearless warrior. For surely only a warrior could possess a body so irresistibly hard and sculpted.

  She flattened her knuckles against the soft linen of his tunic, uncaring of the fabric. Wanting only to caress the heat of his naked flesh. Vaguely she wondered at his lack of armor. Not that it mattered. She didn’t want his armor coming between them.

  With a sigh, she nuzzled her face against his shoulder and ripples of lust rolled low in her belly. Pleasurable and somehow illicit although she couldn’t quite fathom why that should be so.

  “Will you be resting with me?” Her voice still sounded odd, as if her tongue could not quite articulate the words. The back of her hand grazed his throat and she felt him swallow, the action impossibly arousing.

  “No.”

  Languidly she brushed her fingers over the uncompromising line of his jaw. He was rough, and chafed her skin. Entranced, she rubbed her hand along his jaw again, and again the roughness caused tingles of desire to dance through her blood.

  “Why not?” If only she could see his face properly. From recollection, his face was worth looking at. She was sure his body was too.

  “Because I’m on duty.” For a fleeting moment, he glanced down at her, and the blatant lust glowing in his eyes caused raw need to bloom deep between her thighs.

  Her lips parted, but it didn’t help her deprived lungs because every jagged breath held a subtle hint of foreign spices that fogged her reason and heightened her desire. Tendrils of fire wove through her blood, curled around her nipples and flickered with sensuous intent through her quivering sheath. He wouldn’t chose duty above her when she craved for his touch on her burning skin. When she ached to be filled by his tongue and his cock.

  The image pounded against her temples and again she moaned. She imagined him spreading her thighs and impaling his length inside her wet folds.
If he didn’t take her soon she would shatter from unfulfilled need.

  “Are you in pain?” Once again he was looking straight ahead. She turned her wrist and dug her nails into his face, and satisfaction spiked when once again his gaze clashed with hers.

  “Yes.”

  His gaze didn’t waver. “When you’re settled, I will administer more opium.”

  Opium. The word drifted through her mind, but failed to grasp hold. It was unimportant. All that mattered was that this hard, rough-jawed warrior stripped her naked and took her until the raw, primitive need hammering through her veins was sated.

  “When we’re settled,” she dragged in a rasping breath as he paused, “you will administer to me.”

  ***

  Jaw rigid, Tacitus entered his tent. The flap remained opened to give him light, but unfortunately, it also ensured little privacy. Not that the legionary stationed outside would dare breathe a word of what he might overhear, but right now that didn’t give Tacitus much comfort.

  “I’m going to lay you down.” But instead of following through, he remained staring at her upturned face, at her drug-hazed eyes and her seductive smile. Her left arm, wrapped in a sling, rested across her waist. Her right hand, that had been pressed between their bodies, now cradled his jaw and her tempting body curved against him, as if she didn’t find him repulsive in the least.

  His cock thickened, balls tightened. Gods, how easy it would be to lay her down and take what she so unknowingly offered. He knew her inhibitions were lowered and no longer did she see him as her enemy. She saw only a man she wanted.

  A man the opium wanted.

  Breath hissed between his clenched teeth. It was the opium talking. He knew that. But he couldn’t drag his gaze from her. Couldn’t summon the strength to sever their connection.

  The tip of her tongue slid over her lips. He ached to taste those lips, to plunder her mouth, to thrust so deep inside her welcoming cleft she screamed out his name.

  She didn’t even know his name.

  “Yes.” Her voice was a breathy whisper. “And then I can watch you strip. I long to see your naked body, to hold your cock and cradle your balls in the palm of my hand.”