He couldn’t help himself. He reached out and grasped her untidy braid, letting it slide along the palm of his hand. She didn’t gasp in outrage, didn’t jerk her head or push his arm away. She simply stood there, and slowly dragged her gaze up his body until their eyes meshed.
“Yet you still desire this Roman.” It wasn’t a question. He could see the answer in her eyes. He didn’t need her to like him. What did it matter if she despised him?
All he wanted from her was her willing compliance.
Her breath hitched, as she attempted to drag air into her lungs.
“I’m not a bitch in heat.” The tip of her tongue moistened the seam of her lips. He recalled the feel of her tongue inside his mouth, demanding, exploring. Uninhibited. “I don’t need to act on every desire that attacks me.”
He wound her braid around his hand. Imagined unbinding her hair and spearing his fingers through the honey-gold tresses.
“So you admit that you do desire me?” Satisfaction hummed through his blood, threaded through his voice. He tightened his grip on her hair. “What else do we need between us, Celt?”
Her eyes were dark, seductive, the green almost obliterated. Her hand pressed against his chest, against his heart, but it wasn’t a defensive gesture. It was as if she couldn’t help herself.
“Respect.” The word was little more than a whisper, but the unmistakable thread of despair pierced through his pounding lust. He released her hair, cupped her face and stroked his thumb across her silken cheek.
It hadn’t occurred to him she might fear such a thing. She was not, after all, a gently bred Roman girl. Celtic women took lovers whenever they pleased. Even their chieftain class did not, to his knowledge, demand that their women remain virgins until their wedding night.
Somehow, this unexpected fissure of vulnerability caused an odd sensation deep in his chest.
Perhaps this Celt wasn’t as experienced as he’d imagined. He found that notion pleasing. More than pleasing. He found it excessively arousing.
With his free hand, he tenderly stroked errant curls from her face. She had a sharp tongue but it was nothing but a shield to hide her relative innocence.
“When you belong to me,” he whispered, “I will still respect you.”
She continued to gaze at him for endless moments, as though she did not quite understand his meaning. Then her hand slid from his chest and her eyes widened in comprehension.
“When I belong to you?” She sounded incredulous. “I don’t care for your respect, arrogant Roman. I speak of mutual respect between a man and a woman but more than that—I speak of the respect I have for myself.” She tossed her head, to dislodge his hands, and he was so stunned by her response that he released her without protest. “Not that I expect you to understand that, since Romans don’t know the meaning of the word.”
She glared at him, as proud as if she was the Emperor’s daughter and as indignant as if he had grievously offended her honor. When all he had intended was to comfort her with his words.
“It’s you who appears not to understand the concept of respect.” Or self-preservation. But although he knew that, with another, her belligerent attitude could cost her life, right now he was more irked that she clearly did not care a fig about possessing his respect.
“I respect those who have earned it.” Her voice was scathing, but still her breath was short. Her breasts rose and fell with erratic distraction. He battled against the primitive urge to pin her to the mattress and ride her until she screamed with orgasmic delirium.
At the mountain stream, he’d been enchanted by her forthright manner. It was refreshing to meet someone—especially a desirable woman—who didn’t defer to his rank or social standing.
But she was pushing the boundaries. If she behaved in such a disrespectful manner in public, or insulted another officer, they would think nothing of wrenching her tongue from her mouth.
If she didn’t learn a modicum of obedience or, at least, a sliver of common sense, he’d have no alternative but to keep her in utmost seclusion.
He wound his hand around her throat. A gentle grasp, only to remind her how vulnerable she was. Her pulse fluttered against his thumb, an erotic counterpoint to his own hammering heartbeat.
“If you want to survive in this world, you had best learn to hide your disdain for your conquerors.”
She didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t try to wrench his hand from her throat. It was as if she possessed no fear of him at all.
Instead, she jabbed her finger into his chest with unbelievable lack of deference. “You will never be my conqueror.”
He leaned in close until their lips all but touched, and offered her a grim smile. “I already am.”
Chapter Eight
Nimue attempted to convince herself the flutterings in her stomach, the tightness in her chest and inability to think clearly was because she had been injured. But her swollen pussy, her trembling clit and the unmistakable dampness between her thighs told the true tale.
No matter how this Roman’s arrogance should inflame her fury, his words only inflamed her despicable lust.
His hand encircled her throat. She had no illusion that if he so desired he could snap her neck as easily as he might a bird’s. Yet, irrationally, it wasn’t fear that flooded her body and tampered with her mind.
How much easier would it be for her sanity, if she feared this Roman as she should.
Her hand flattened against his chest, against his hard muscles and a tremor raced from the tips of her fingers, along her arm and shimmered across her exposed cleavage. She longed to pull his tunic from his body, run her hand over his naked flesh and feast upon the glory of his cock.
There was no doubt it would be glorious. Even through his tunic, she had been mesmerized by its tempting promise.
Despite all her convictions, her body softened, and no matter how she clenched her inner muscles it did nothing to stop the frantic need pulsing in her blood. His mouth was so close to hers. His gaze, intense. And the tips of his fingers scorched the vulnerable column of her throat.
It was hard to remember why she was so furious with him, why she should resist the fiery attraction that sizzled between them.
“No man owns me.” It sounded like an invitation to prove her wrong. Goddess, were her senses still enslaved to the foreign drug? But she knew they weren’t. And yet she couldn’t summon the strength to shove him aside.
“No other man owns you.” His voice was raw, his words primitive. She tried for indignation and failed. Because a despicable part of her still craved this man.
Slowly her hand slid up to his shoulder. His powerful muscles flexed beneath her questing fingers, sending primal need shuddering through her blood. All the reasons why this was so wrong splintered and scattered to the winds. Because right now all she could think was how it would feel to be held in his arms, crushed against his body and succumb to the flames licking the slick folds of her pussy.
“Tacitus. You decent?” The disembodied voice shattered the sensual cocoon as effectively as if she had been plunged into an icy mountain stream. She jerked her hand from the Roman’s shoulder and sent him the blackest glare she could dredge up from her disgusted soul.
He—Tacitus?—scowled down at her as if the interruption could not have come at a worse time. She tilted her head very slightly to the side, an unspoken demand, and he slowly, with obvious reluctance, released her throat from his imprisoning grip.
He stalked to the side of the enclosure—now that she was fully awake she could see it was a tent—and ripped open the flap. Sunlight streamed in, and Nimue squinted as a huge dark shadow entered.
“Marcellus.” Tacitus sounded rabid. “It’s not like you to make house calls on your patients.”
The other Roman grinned. “With what you paid me, my friend, the extra service is all inclusive.”
Nimue shot Tacitus a startled glance. He had paid for her treatment? Why would he do that? It was one thing to ensure her inju
ry was tended to, even though she couldn’t fathom his motives. But it hadn’t occurred to her that he had paid a healer to administer to her wound.
Her unease spiked and suspicion raked through her. So he had paid for her treatment. He’d better not assume she owed him anything in return. Irritably she twisted one of her bracelets around her immobilized wrist. It was obvious her personal wealth was of little interest to him, otherwise he would have stripped the jewelry from her while she slept. But it was all she had to offer in payment since her dagger had vanished and her bow— Goddess, I left my bow with the queen.
Her mission slammed through her brain, obliterating the irritation beneath a wave of crippling guilt. She had to focus. Had to discover the fate of the queen. And who better to sound out for information than this healer?
“She appears to be recovering.” Tacitus sounded as if the prognosis did not especially please him, and Nimue’s pledge to think only of the queen and princess, and not about a certain Roman officer, fractured.
Who was he, to tell the healer whether she was recovering or not?
“My shoulder,” she said in Latin, in case the other Roman was ignorant of her language. “What exactly did you do after removing the arrowhead?”
Both men turned to stare at her, as though she had suddenly grown wings or sprouted a second head. She stiffened her spine and stared right back. She was the injured one here. Why did they look so astonished that she wished to know the extent of damage they’d caused her?
The healer, Marcellus, looked at Tacitus as if requesting permission that he might speak directly to her. But that made no sense. She’d heard many rumors about life under the Romans, but she had never come across anything that suggested a man could not speak freely with an unattached, non-Roman woman.
Tacitus, in the process of lighting a lantern, gave the barest jerk of his head, apparently bestowing such permission. Unease compressed Nimue’s gut. She had tried not to face the obvious, but clearly she was this Roman’s prisoner. And because of his rank, he had somehow managed to keep her from wherever prisoners were usually kept.
The resentment bubbled, dark and corroding. Until yesterday, she had never seriously considered she might be captured by the enemy. Killed by them, certainly. But her mind had shied short of actual capture, because capture equaled torture and ultimate crucifixion because of her heritage.
But only if they discovered her heritage.
Her head began to ache.
“I cleaned the wound and stitched it.” The healer smiled at her in what she could only assume he believed to be a reassuring manner. She ignored it.
“What did you clean it with?” As yet, although her shoulder hurt it didn’t feel as if it was putrefying from the inside out. She could only hope these barbarians knew more medical aid than rumor suggested.
“Vinegar.”
Startled by the knowledge this Roman used the same method for cleansing wounds as her own people, she was momentarily silenced. Perhaps her shoulder would make a full recovery, after all.
“Now,” Marcellus said, once again glancing at Tacitus. “Do I have permission to inspect my handiwork?”
“You do,” she said quickly, before Tacitus could respond. He merely glowered at her and folded his arms, and before she could stop herself, she glanced at his groin.
Oh yes. He was still massively aroused and she hoped he was in grave discomfort because of it.
She certainly was.
The treacherous thought slid through her mind, and she gritted her teeth. It didn’t help knowing that, had Marcellus not arrived when he had, she would likely have succumbed to the lust surging through her veins.
The thought was revolting. Even if her cursed body disagreed.
“Please, sit.” The healer indicated the chair she had recently vacated and since he had asked, and not commanded, she sat. He examined the back of her head and then proceeded to remove the sling and unbind her arm. As he reached her shoulder she held her breath, and despite all her training her stomach pitched with nerves at what she might see once the last dressing was removed.
Romans were butchers. Everyone knew that. Perhaps, despite her best intentions, something on her face showed her fear because Tacitus suddenly loomed over them.
“There’s no need to look.” His frown had intensified. “Avert your eyes.”
Despite his demanding tone, he sounded concerned. Did he imagine she might faint at the sight of her mutilated flesh? She offered him a pained smile.
“There’s every need to look, Tacitus. How else will I see what damage I’ve sustained?”
Tacitus stared as if she had just uttered something completely incomprehensible. Even Marcellus paused in his ministrations and looked at her as though he couldn’t decide whether he was shocked or wanted to laugh.
“What?” She transferred her glare from Marcellus back to Tacitus before once again looking at her shoulder as the healer removed the dressing.
“Nothing,” Marcellus said, and from the tone of his voice, it appeared amusement had won over shock. “Isn’t that right, Tacitus?”
Tacitus grunted, whether in agreement or not she couldn’t decipher. Why they should think it so extraordinary she had deduced his name from their conversation she couldn’t imagine. If that was the reason.
Her breath escaped in a relieved gasp. The wound was not fiery red or weeping yellow pus. It was a surprisingly small puncture between her collarbone and armpit and the stitches astonishingly neat. She leaned down and sniffed. And smelt only the faintest tinge of astringent.
“Curse the gods.” Tacitus glared at her shoulder as if it mortally offended him. “Fucking Gallian.”
“Who has been punished for his lack of foresight.”
Was she imagining that slight censure in the healer’s voice?
Carefully she prodded her shoulder. The arrow hadn’t penetrated right through, thank Goddess, otherwise her arm would be useless for moons. It appeared the sleeveless leather shirt, which her mother had always insisted she wore in battle, had saved her from far more serious an injury.
Her mother. Whenever she thought of her, a shaft of pain speared through Nimue’s heart. A wretched maelstrom of strangled love, despairing guilt and an overwhelming sense of loss and betrayal.
“Are you in much discomfort?” Marcellus pulled up the other chair and sat, his attention fully on her. “I can administer more opium if you require.”
And risk losing her senses once again?
“I don’t require any more of your drugs.” But even as she spoke, a flicker of intangible awareness vibrated through her soul.
I need the opium.
The thought pierced her brain and she instantly tried to smother it. She didn’t want the drug. She would have to be dead or at the very least unconscious before she’d allow them to fill her with their heathen potions again.
Yet the feeling persisted. She needed the opium.
“At least—not at this moment.” Goddess, what had possessed her to say that? She clamped her teeth together before any other unwary word escaped.
“I still have the opium you gave me yesterday,” Tacitus said. “She didn’t need any during the night.”
“Good.” Marcellus sounded faintly surprised, as if he had expected her to welcome his brain-numbing potions with open arms. Skeletal fingers trailed from the base of her skull and along the length of her spine. And once again, the overwhelming compunction to demand more opium pounded in her mind.
What was wrong with her? The more she craved it, the more she would resist. She would never be able to discover the fate of the queen and escape this Roman if her mind was forever fogged by erotic dreams and…
And something else, something of utmost importance; something she could almost recall if only the veil in her mind would lift.
The healer redressed her wound, all the while telling her how she had to rest her arm and not put undue strain on her shoulder. She didn’t bother telling him she had no intention of allowing
her muscles to become soft and useless by such coddling. Was this the advice he gave his Roman patients?
Her irritated thoughts reminded her of something she shouldn’t have forgotten in the first place.
“Have you tended many Celtic casualties?” She hoped her voice didn’t betray the urgency of her question. “Women and children?”
Marcellus glanced up at her, a guarded look in his eyes.
“There were not—”
“Have you finished?” Tacitus’ impatient voice cut through the healer’s and Marcellus straightened. Nimue pressed her lips together as the moment of possible illumination shattered before her eyes.
“Yes. The wound is healing satisfactorily. There’s no hint of corruption. But don’t hesitate to come and see me again if you’re at all concerned.”
Nimue pushed herself to her feet. The healer’s words offered her no comfort because what had he been about to say? That there had been no other Celtic casualties? Because all the Romans had left were fatalities?
Did that mean all the children who had been hiding in the mountains had been slaughtered by the enemy, or that they had escaped into the surrounding forests?
“You’ve treated no injured children?”
“Be silent.” Tacitus rounded on her with such ferocity she actually recoiled. Was he speaking to her? No one had ever spoken to her in such a manner before. No one would dare speak to her in such a manner. But in the fleeting moment that her senses reeled, Tacitus virtually ejected Marcellus from the tent. “Repeat nothing.”
Far from looking offended, Marcellus shot her a calculating glance before tossing Tacitus a grin.
“There’s nothing to repeat, my friend. But may Fortuna smile upon you because by Mars, I believe you’re going to need her.”
Chapter Nine
Tacitus scowled at his friend’s retreating back before ensuring that the legionary guarding the tent was far enough away so as not to have overheard the conversation.
Then he yanked down the flap and turned to face his Celt.
Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Page 6
