Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3)

by Christina Phillips

  Her drug-induced promises incinerated his senses. Gods, no woman had ever uttered such words to him. No woman would have dared. Even this one would not, had she been in full possession of her mind.

  But still they thundered through his blood. Pounded against his temples. The image was carved into his brain, of her on her knees, holding him. Cradling him. Scrutinizing him.

  It was headier than the most expensive aphrodisiac from the East. Headier than opium? The thought barely registered. Because all that registered was the woman in his arms, offering herself to him.

  Chapter Five

  Still holding her in his arms Tacitus lowered his head toward her, no longer caring of the open tent flap, the proximity of the legionary or the fact he was still on duty. All he could see, all he could feel was the woman nestled so seductively against his chest, her breasts pressed against him while her palm caressed his jaw.

  Her lips parted and her breath was sweet, like incense. Blood pounded, pulses hammered yet with rigid restraint, he brushed the most chaste of kisses across those tempting lips.

  So soft. So full of promise. So deliciously responsive. She lifted her head and instead of breaking contact, he captured her lips once again. Nothing chaste about this kiss. Their mouths clung together as if nothing else in the world existed.

  She wound her hand around the nape of his neck. Her fingers speared through his hair, scraping across the base of his skull. Desire spiked through his groin, her touch as potent as if she had grasped his cock, and restraint splintered.

  He slid his tongue inside her open mouth and she sucked on him, sudden and hard and unbelievably shocking. He withdrew, a slow slide against her wet flesh then thrust into her again, teasing the roof of her mouth, and claimed the strangled moans that vibrated from her throat.

  Fingernails dug into his scalp, primitive and wild. His hand closed over the mound of her breast, filling his palm. Her nipple was hard through the material of her gown, and with a primal growl, he rubbed the tips of his fingers over the erect nub. Backward and forward. Increasing the pressure. She squirmed in his arms, her muffled moans of pleasure stoking his need.

  He needed to lay her down. Rip off her gown. Explore her writhing body.

  The exhilarating vision of her laying naked on his bed hammered in his mind. She was willing. She did not know she was a slave. He could fuck her, make her come, give her such pleasure that when she discovered the truth she wouldn’t feel as if she had been used at all.

  Her sweet taste slid insidiously into his senses, heady and somehow illicit. The tips of their tongues touched, and it was mindlessly erotic.

  Somehow, he stumbled to the bed. Curse this primitive camp. He wanted his own bed, but this makeshift one would have to do. Carefully he lowered her, his mouth still claiming hers—or was she claiming his?—and as he laid her down the light diminished.

  He scarcely noticed. Tearing his mouth from her, he panted down into her face, relishing the jagged gasps of her breath, the way her fingers dug into the back of his neck, the way her breasts heaved beneath her soft gown.

  The way her left arm was immobilized in a sling.

  For a moment he stared, uncomprehending. She was injured and he had been about to fuck her?

  “Roman.” The word was scarcely above a whisper, and wrapped around his reeling senses like a seductive embrace of purest silk. Her right hand slid from his neck, over his shoulder and along his arm. It was a light caress and yet as arousing as if she slid her naked body along him instead.

  Gods. What was he thinking? Marcellus had warned him not to have her tonight. She was injured. She was under the influence of opium.

  She was his slave.

  He couldn’t move. He remained kneeling on the floor beside her as her hand curled around his wrist. The light was oddly dimmed and yet he could see her delicate features and the fragile outline of her enticing body. And still he could not find the strength of will to stand up and leave.

  “Are you man enough for me, Roman?” Her words were heated, provocative. A blatant challenge. “I’ve never had a barbarian before.” She smiled, as if that thought gave her great amusement and he battled against the renewed lust that thundered through his blood at her taunts.

  “You will lie here and rest.” It was an order. Any other woman—any other man—would have instantly quailed. But this Celt, this slave—who didn’t even know she was a slave—merely offered him another sultry smile and pulled on his hand.

  He didn’t resist.

  She dragged his hand between her thighs and pressed him against her slick core. Air hissed between his clenched teeth as her feminine dampness caressed his fingers, as she rolled her hips and a breathy sigh escaped her lips.

  “Don’t you want me, Roman?” She increased pressure on his hand and of their own volition his fingers pushed against her soft gown, seeking and finding the wet opening of her welcoming pussy.

  Primal need thudded through his veins and tightened his rock-hard balls. This was madness. Feverishly his fingers bunched up her gown, exposing her thighs, until he gripped the material and wrenched it up to her waist.

  Honey-blonde curls crowned her glistening lips, her flesh plump and pink and deliriously tantalizing. Mesmerized by the sheer eroticism of how she angled her hips toward him and by her evocative scent that caused his cock to thicken, he couldn’t remember why taking her was such a bad idea.

  He trailed the tips of his fingers over her stomach and then lower, teasing her soft curls. She sighed in evident pleasure and collapsed back onto the pallet as if she no longer possessed the strength to entice him. But he needed no additional enticement. Everything he needed was here, between her spread thighs.

  She was wet and hot. His finger slid along her cleft, her soft folds promising a wild, unforgettable ride. Breath rasped along his throat, need pounded through his groin, sanity sank beyond the fiery horizon.

  She was willing. She was ready. And she was his.

  The final thought pounded with primitive possessiveness through his mind, through his soul. She was his and no other man had the right to touch her. No other man had the right to look at her naked body, breathe her heady scent, or hear her gasps of impending climax. Somehow, he dragged his gaze from her desire-swollen lips, up the length of her prone body, expecting to see her watching him.

  Her head had fallen back onto the pallet. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. For a moment, he couldn’t comprehend the evidence before him, but her sudden lack of response was clear enough.

  She had fallen asleep.

  Disbelief hammered through his veins, but it was muted by the lust that still thundered in his blood. She was asleep, and he was so hard he feared he might rupture.

  His fingers curled into a fist against her silken slit. Just moments longer and he would have been inside her. The thought of being clasped by her tight sheath, of her legs wrapped around his waist, of her fingernails scraping along his naked back caused streaks of agonized pleasure to burn his cock.

  But she was unconscious.

  He reared back, his breath harsh against his clenched teeth. By the gods, he was no better than his commander. No better than my father. Bitter disgust curdled his gut and he jerked her gown back over her thighs. Removing temptation from his vision.

  Except the image of her seductive nakedness was branded inside his brain.

  He flexed his fingers, and her arousal drifted in the air. Mocking his restraint. He struggled against the overpowering urge to grip his cock and find some measure of solitary satisfaction. Yet the thought of doing so while his Celt lay oblivious, felt wrong. Even if he didn’t touch her while he brought himself to climax, he couldn’t shake the feeling that to pleasure himself while she remained unaware was vulgar. As if his act of self-gratification would somehow defile her.

  Fuck the gods. He lurched to his feet and glared at her peaceful face. He was cursed with a conscience few of his peers possessed and until this moment, it had never unduly concerned h
im.

  But now, because of his convictions, he couldn’t wake his own slave. Couldn’t take what his body demanded. Couldn’t—wouldn’t. Was there even a difference? He was so fucking hard he couldn’t even think straight.

  He grabbed a blanket and dropped it over her, not trusting himself to touch her in case his tenuous control shattered. Then he wheeled around and saw the tent flap had been closed.

  His mood darkened further and he wrenched it open and marched outside. The legionary didn’t glance in his direction. Just as well. The way he felt right now, eye contact would be an excellent excuse for a fight.

  “No one enters.” He sounded rabid.

  “Sir.” The legionary remained looking straight ahead. But how much had he seen before the bastard had closed the tent flap?

  How dare he close the tent flap? Yet if he hadn’t, his Celt would have been on public display to any man who passed by.

  The thought fed his rage. Pressure throbbed against his temples; his balls were on fire.

  For one heart-thundering moment, he considered returning to his Celt and taking what, by law, was his.

  He turned, secured the tent, slung the legionary one last black glare before marching off. He needed to report to his commander and discover if it was, indeed, Caratacus’ queen and daughter who had been found.

  But duty was the last thing on his mind. Because all his mind could conjure up was the image of his half naked Celt writhing beneath his questing fingers.

  ***

  “Tacitus.” The commander waved his hand in an imperious gesture for Tacitus to approach. The social meeting was being held outside the commander’s tent, to take advantage of the lingering twilight. “Come, sit down. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Blandus was already there, seated on a chair beside a table covered in unrolled documents. Tacitus sat. At least now his cursed erection had begun to diminish. It was still fucking uncomfortable, though.

  The commander sat and slung him an amused glance. Tacitus could see nothing amusing in the situation. But since it was impossible for the commander to guess the extent of or reason for Tacitus’ current frustration, clearly he was missing something vital.

  “No need to look so ferocious,” the commander said as he sat down and jerked his head so they could be served refreshments. “I agree this is barbaric and not what you’re used to. However, we’ll just have to conduct ourselves as if we were in the bathhouse.”

  A session in the bathhouse was very appealing. A good massage might well go some way to relieving the tension.

  Then again, it might not, considering the reason for his tension.

  He attempted to relax his features. Then decided it was too much effort.

  “Is the woman Caratacus’ queen?” He picked up his goblet and drank the contents in one long swallow. Then signaled for a refill.

  “She is.” Blandus sprawled back in his chair and looked smug. “A well-equipped bag of medicinal herbs and strange concoctions was found with them. Apparently they had been traveling with a healer who’d gone to collect water to tend the princess’ injuries.”

  Tacitus only just prevented himself from choking on his wine. Was his Celt a healer? Had she been traveling with Caratacus’ queen and daughter?

  No. It was sheer coincidence that he had found her by a stream so close to where the queen had been discovered.

  “Has the healer been found?” He kept his tone casual, but the glint in Blandus’ eyes told him that his cousin was fully aware of the interest behind the question.

  “Apparently not.”

  “I see.”

  It would be best if the connection—not that he believed there was a connection—between his Celt and the healer was not made. Although it made no difference now, since she was already his slave and couldn’t be punished without his approval. He didn’t want any unsavory suspicion to fall on her.

  “Today,” Blandus said, “has been very satisfactory altogether.”

  Tacitus grunted. He was feeling far from satisfied. “Good.”

  “An excellent day’s work.” The commander sounded as satisfied as his nephew. “We’ll ship his queen and daughter back to Rome. It won’t take long to hunt down Caratacus now his band of rebels have been scattered and captured.”

  “And finally,” Blandus said, “the tribes of Cambria will bow before the Eagle. The outcome of this day is going to make our careers, Tacitus.”

  “Do we know where Caratacus went to ground?”

  “Ostorius Scapula believes his only recourse is to travel into the barbarous north.” The commander glanced at one of the documents on the table, a cartography of the local area. “I’m in agreement. Our client kingdoms in Britannia are loyal to Rome. He’ll find no powerful allies there.”

  “However, due to the unpredictable behavior of the natives,” Blandus said, “it appears the remainder of my term in service will be spent in close proximity to you, uncle.” He shot Tacitus a grin that had nothing to do with their two Legions now being stationed in the same far-flung outpost of the Empire. “I hope your garrison contains all the necessary luxuries for life.”

  “Tacitus has never complained, and if ever a man indulged his son more than my brother has you, it’s Gemellus.”

  Tacitus ignored the jibe. It was scarcely a secret that his father had all but given up on siring a son before Tacitus’ birth. His numerous half-sisters attested to the fact as to how vigorously his father had worked in that area of his life.

  The consequence being—his father denied him nothing that was in his power to give.

  “In that case I won’t petition the Emperor to be relocated to a less hostile province.” Blandus shot a second lascivious grin in Tacitus’ direction. “I’m sure Tacitus and I can find some enjoyable amusement with which to entertain ourselves. It’s been a while since we’ve had the opportunity.”

  Tacitus felt a scowl threatening. Blandus would discover soon enough that Tacitus had bought the Celt solely in his own name. His cousin would be pissed. No doubt about it.

  Tough.

  “You’ll find plenty of that kind of entertainment, Blandus.” The commander then turned to Tacitus. “I heard a rumor this evening that I can scarcely believe. Did you buy one of the female slaves that were rounded up from the aftermath?”

  Tacitus’ fingers clenched around his goblet. He had been hoping his commander had not become aware of that fact yet. But of course he would know. It was his duty to know everything that went on in his Legion.

  “I captured her after she was injured. After the battle.” He wondered if it was worth emphasizing that the Celt had been about to surrender, but then decided that would create yet more complications. “I bought her so she could recuperate in comfort.”

  He heard Blandus give a smothered snort, but ignored him. The commander, who had been staring at him in barely concealed astonishment, relaxed back in his chair and laughed, as if Tacitus had just shared a witty jest.

  “That explains it. I knew you wouldn’t have purchased a young girl because you wanted to fuck her. Not your way, is it?” He grinned, and for a moment reminded Tacitus of how Blandus would look in another twenty-five years.

  And then he thought of the last time he’d seen his Celt. Of how close he had come to taking her while she slept. The thought caused disgust to churn his blood and finally his cursed erection fully deflated.

  The commander was still talking. For an obscure reason he now appeared to consider the Celt little more than a child. “Do you intend to have her trained in your kitchen when she is well?”

  Have her work in his kitchen? She would likely try to poison him given half a chance.

  “I haven’t decided yet.” His voice was stiff. The commander didn’t appear to take offense.

  “You’ll have to give her something to do to occupy her days. An idle slave is a liability, Tacitus. We all know that.” He stood, rolled his shoulders and frowned into the distance. “I’d better inspect the slaves captured today.
Ensure they’re being held in adequate conditions.”

  As the Commander strolled off, Blandus raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Ensure there are no beautiful blonde girls there, he means.” Blandus turned to Tacitus. “Fortunately, our blonde beauty is safely ensconced in your tent.” Then he laughed. “Wait until he discovers our slave is no innocent child. And I do believe she can be as idle as she pleases during the day. She’ll certainly be kept busy enough at night.”

  Blandus’ words shouldn’t have irritated him, and yet they did.

  “Have you forgotten? She’s just had an arrow removed from her shoulder.” And still he had almost taken her. Even after Marcellus had warned him against such a thing.

  “Of course I don’t wish to inflict any more pain on her.” Blandus looked taken aback, as if Tacitus’ feral growl had been unwarranted. “But surely we can all enjoy ourselves until such time as she’s ready. By the way, how much do I owe you?”

  Tacitus stood and glared down at his cousin. “Nothing.” He said the word with relish and watched Blandus frown with incomprehension. “She belongs to me. Not us. And I have no intention of sharing.”

  With that, he marched off, in full awareness of the infuriated glower his cousin aimed at his retreating back.

  Chapter Six

  Nimue’s entire body ached. The pain from her head thudded in tandem with the throb in her shoulder, which pulsed in time with every beat of her heart. Gritting her teeth, she forced open her eyes. The light was diffused and disoriented her. She wasn’t outside. Where am I?

  It felt as if she was lying on a bed. Gingerly she turned her head and saw shadowy outlines of huge caskets and a couple of chairs. Sluggish memories crawled from the depths of her mind and panic clutched her chest, making it hard to breathe.

  What had happened to the Briton queen and her daughter? She was responsible for their safety. Responsible for returning them to Caratacus. And she had allowed herself to be captured by the enemy.