Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3)

by Christina Phillips

  She was looking at him as if he was a plague-ridden leper.

  “And why shouldn’t I know of my countrymen’s fate?” Her voice was haughty. “Would you be silent in my place?”

  He’d expected her to rant in fury at his command, not coldly question him. He wasn’t used to people questioning his commands and, for the life of him, he couldn’t recall a single instance when a woman had.

  There was a time and place to be entertained by this barbaric Celt’s behavior and now, when he needed to be by his commander’s side, was neither.

  “I’m not in your place, and the likelihood of my ever being so is remote.” He wrenched off his tunic and tossed it onto the pallet he’d tried to sleep on last night. “Therefore your question is redundant.”

  When she didn’t immediately respond he shot her an irritated glance and saw how she stared, riveted, at his erect cock. The look on her face was a heady combination of shocked disbelief and blatant lust.

  He gritted his teeth and grabbed his clean tunic that lay across the top of his casket. He was in need of a fuck, a bath and a long, relaxing massage but the most he could look forward to today was, most likely, supervising the dismantling of this camp.

  “My questions,” her voice was husky and only when the linen covered him did she drag her gaze up to his face, “are deserving of answers.” The tip of her tongue moistened her lips. “You have no right to deny me such knowledge.”

  In the process of swinging his cloak over his shoulders, he slung her a disbelieving glance. True, he didn’t want her to behave like a slave. But gods, did she really have no idea when she should hold her tongue? No woman of his acquaintance was so insistent on having the last word once a man had made himself clear.

  “I don’t have time to pander to your whims.” He fixed his fibula to his shoulder. “Remain here. I’ll have food sent to you, and water so you can wash.” Cursed inconvenient none of his personal servants were here. But back at the garrison, he could ensure she was looked after properly in his absence.

  She let out a surprisingly loud hiss.

  “You’re doing it again. Stop giving me orders. And if you refuse to answer my questions then tell me that. Don’t pretend my concerns are mere whims.” She spat the word as if it offended her.

  It probably did.

  He realized he was staring at her when, slave or not, he should be telling her—once again—to be silent.

  Only this time she didn’t need to remain silent for her safety. This time she needed to be silent because…

  Because she talked too much. He’d never met a woman who talked as much as she did. At least, not one that talked of such things that continually irked and astounded him.

  It had been different by the mountain stream when sexual awareness had sizzled in the air and he’d been so certain of having her. It had been blatantly erotic, early this morn, when she had openly defied him. Yet even then she’d continued to push beyond acceptable boundaries and she was doing it again.

  “I refuse to answer your questions.” He waited for her exclamation of outrage, but it didn’t come. She just glowered at him. His balls ached, his cock throbbed and frustration thundered through his veins. “For your own safety you’ll remain here. If you’re hungry, you will eat the food I provide. And if you have any self-respect,” he emphasized the words with heavy sarcasm, “you’ll use the water to wash the filth from your body.”

  He watched the mortified blush spread over her cheeks, as if she understood the full intent of his barbed remark. His scowl deepened when a stab of regret pierced his conscience. Gods, as if it mattered whether he had injured her feelings or not, so long as she cleaned herself up?

  “And if I am to remain here, how am I to relieve myself?” Despite the way he had just intentionally insulted her, pride spiked her words. Somehow that made him feel even worse.

  It took him a moment to understand her meaning. And then he was the one who felt heat crawling up his face.

  By the gods. He’d never spoken of such intimacies before. It wasn’t something he wished to experience again, either.

  He had no intention of allowing her to use the latrines. Not even if he accompanied her to ensure no other legionary entered while she was…relieving herself.

  “I’ll have a bucket brought for you.”

  “A bucket?” She sounded as if she had never heard of such an item. Except the look of horrified disgust on her face assured him she knew exactly what a bucket was and the thought of using it filled her with revulsion.

  “I’ll return later.” He turned to leave, then hesitated. “If you need anything, ask the legionary on duty outside.” He’d give instructions that the Celt’s wishes were to be relayed to him instantly. “But don’t attempt to engage him in conversation.”

  “Why would I want to engage a filthy Roman in conversation?” Her voice was belligerent and there was a proud tilt to her chin. But as she folded her arms, her hand cradled the elbow of her injured arm and that single gesture tore through his chest.

  In spite of her brave words, she was a vulnerable woman. Little more than a girl. Although she was here with him, although she belonged to him, this was not how he had imagined it when he’d come across her on the mountain.

  But this was the reality. When she was in a more accommodating frame of mind—when they were back at the garrison and he’d had time to make the necessary arrangements—he’d tell her she was his concubine. And he could wipe the unsavory fact that he had purchased her from his mind.

  “No reason.” He preferred she spoke to no one. Then no one could inadvertently betray her status. His mind lingered on his recent thoughts and although he was perilously close to being late for his meeting with the commander he couldn’t help himself. “How old are you?”

  For a moment, he didn’t think she was going to answer. Then she let out a long sigh.

  “This is my twenty-second summer.”

  He barely hid his surprise. She was older than he’d imagined, scarcely two years younger than he was.

  “Well?” She sounded irked by his continued silence. “How old are you, Tacitus?”

  For the second time that morning, her use of his personal name stunned him. Of course, once she was his concubine he intended she would call him that, but it was a privilege not something anyone could refer to him by.

  Certainly not a slave. It was a wonder Marcellus hadn’t remarked upon it.

  “You have me at a disadvantage.” There was no reason to make an issue of it. No one would know but Marcellus, and his friend would repeat nothing of what had occurred during the course of his house call. “I don’t yet know your name.”

  “Oh.” She sounded scathing. “I believe we’re even, Roman, since I know your name and you know my age.”

  Why couldn’t she answer a simple, civilized question? And why was he standing here conversing with her when his commander waited?

  “If you prefer I can give you a new name. A Roman name.” Not that he truly intended to. It was too closely entwined with ownership and slavery. “I’ve no intention of referring to you as Celt for the remainder of our liaison.”

  Her lips thinned in clear annoyance. Whether it was the threat of him renaming her or the fact he intended for them to enjoy a liaison, he wasn’t sure.

  “You may address me as Nimue.” She sounded as though she conferred a great honor.

  “Nimue.” It was an unusual name, like nothing he had heard before. But since Nimue herself was like no other woman he’d ever encountered, her name suited her perfectly. “I like it.”

  If he expected a positive response to his remark, he should have known better. She shrugged her good shoulder and gave him a look that suggested he had just crawled from beneath a steaming pile of manure.

  “It’s the only name I’ll answer to.”

  And then, as if she were an empress and he a lowly plebeian, she turned her back on him.

  ***

  Tacitus was still seething with unrequited
lust and justifiable fury at Nimue’s insolence when he arrived at his commander’s tent. His temper didn’t improve when he saw Blandus was already there.

  Why the fuck wasn’t he with his own commander?

  “We’re leaving today,” the commander said without preamble. “Inform the centurions.”

  “Very well.” Tacitus glanced at his cousin. “Shouldn’t you be with Ostorius Scapula?”

  “Already received my orders for the day.” Blandus fingered the hilt of his sword. “Two of our cohorts are to remain behind and scour the countryside for any stragglers. I doubt they’ll find Caratacus but who can say? We picked up one of his brothers at first light this morning.”

  Tacitus jerked his head. “If that’s all, I’ll give the Primus his orders.” He needed to work off some of this excess energy. Keep his mind occupied so Nimue’s haughty face didn’t incessantly intrude.

  Gods. He’d not envisaged she would be so hard to please once she’d regained her senses. All he needed was for her to accept the desire that burned between them. Why was that so hard? He knew, as surely as he knew he had only three more months left to serve in the Legions, that once he’d had her, this frenzied need in his blood would abate.

  Then he could enjoy her barbed tongue and seductive body at nights, and forget about her during the days.

  “So, Tacitus…” Blandus’ smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Is the reason you’re so late this morning due to that delectable little slave you purchased yesterday?”

  “What, the child?” The commander glanced up from the scrolls he was scrutinizing to frown at Tacitus.

  “Hardly a child, my esteemed uncle.” Blandus gave a mirthless laugh. “She certainly tempted my noble cousin to forsake his mighty principles. Although the glower on your face, Tacitus, suggests she wasn’t as accommodating as you supposed.”

  “The Celt,” for some reason he didn’t feel disposed to tell Blandus her name, “is still recovering from her injury.”

  “She was shot in the shoulder, not between her thighs. I’m sure she’s more than able to spread her legs with suitable encouragement.”

  “And that,” Tacitus said, hanging onto his temper by the slenderest of threads, “is something only I will ever know.”

  “By Mars.” Amusement lurked in the commander’s tone. “Aren’t you boys too old to be fighting over your female entertainment?”

  “There’s nothing to fight over.” Tacitus flexed his fingers and maintained eye contact with his now-scowling cousin. “The woman is mine. No discussion.”

  The commander slapped him on the shoulder. “She must be quite something, Tacitus. I look forward to making her acquaintance.”

  Chapter Ten

  Using the bucket had been one of the most degrading experiences of Nimue’s life, but that was before a hated auxiliary of the enemy arrived to remove the offending object. She stood, rigid with mortification, as two more auxiliaries brought in a small tub and more buckets of hot water.

  None of the auxiliaries said a word to her. They didn’t even make eye contact. She might have been invisible for all the notice they took of her. When she was once again alone she released a ragged breath and using one finger pulled open a crack in the flap of the tent.

  A legionary was stationed outside. Other tents were opposite and the entire area was a seething hive of activity. Beyond, in the distance, was the mountain where her people had been so disastrously led by the Briton king’s vision of victory.

  She had no chance of slipping out unnoticed. And even if she did, where would she go? She still hadn’t discovered whether or not the queen had been captured.

  Hugging her aching arm she glared with resentment at the buckets of water and assortment of what she could only imagine were cleansing lotions. It was humiliating enough to face the fact she was a prisoner, without having the additional fact thrown in her face that she stank.

  The childish desire to tip the cursed water over the floor assailed her. Except she was certain such action wouldn’t gain her access to a stream. She was torn between the desire to feel clean again and acidic indignation at having a Roman bark orders at her as if she were a stray dog. Her glance snagged on the large casket she’d noticed earlier that morn and upon which an auxiliary had left a plate of strange, foreign food.

  Her heart hammered in sudden excitement. Perhaps Tacitus had stowed her dagger there? She felt naked, horribly vulnerable without it, and although she was under no illusion that her dagger could grant her safe passage from this heathen camp, at least it would afford her a sense of personal security.

  The casket was locked. Of course it would be. She scrutinized the lock and a grim smile twisted her lips. This mechanism was familiar to her. Her mother had owned a Roman crafted casket with such a lock. But not only that. Her mother had taught her how to open such locks without benefit of a Roman key.

  She slid her earring out of her lobe, straightened the silver spike as best she could and inserted it into the keyhole. Several painstaking moments later, the mechanism clicked open.

  She dropped her earring onto her lap and picked up the plate. After she placed it back on the ground, she attempted to lift the solid timber lid with one hand. It was too heavy from that angle. She pushed herself to her feet. It was only her shoulder that was injured, yet it affected her entire body.

  She braced her thigh against the side of the casket and this time when she tried to lift the lid, it swung open. A timber box lay on top of purple-striped linen, filled with silver and gold brooches. They were encrusted with precious gems, and looked similar to the one Tacitus had used on his cloak just now. She glanced over her shoulder, but the tent flap was still secured. She had to hurry. There was no telling how soon the Roman might return. The last thing she wanted was for him to discover her rifling through his possessions.

  Holding her breath, she knelt, slid her hand into the side of the casket and spread her fingers. She could feel nothing but soft linen. Perhaps her dagger was hidden beneath the layers of clothing instead of down the side of the casket. She lifted the top garment.

  Her fingers stilled and she stared, unbelieving, at her medicine bag.

  Arianrhod save me. All her desperate hopes that somehow the queen and princess remained safely hidden fled.

  They were not safe. They had been captured. How else would her bag be here? She’d left it with them when she’d gone to find water. Her fingers crushed the embroidered handles as indecision seared her breast.

  Where were they? In another Roman officer’s tent? Was that the way Romans secured their valuable prisoners?

  But while Caratacus’ queen was certainly valuable, of what value was she? As a Druid they might, possibly, want to postpone her execution until they returned to the Roman fortification. That way they could ensure a significant crowd might watch her torturous death by crucifixion. But she was certain they didn’t know of her heritage. If they did, they wouldn’t have wasted their time by treating her injury.

  With difficulty, she unhooked her fingers from her bag. It was clear it had been emptied of all its contents. And it was equally clear of what value Tacitus placed on her.

  He wanted to fuck her. It was as simple as that. Why he hadn’t already, she could not quite comprehend, especially after her discovery that he’d paid for her treatment. But it didn’t change what she knew.

  Biting her lip she continued to search through the casket, but it was a halfhearted effort since she knew she wouldn’t find her dagger. The only items that might be used as weapons were the pins in the brooches. She took one final look at her bag, traced her finger over the embroidered image of the owl and then covered it with the linen and closed the lid.

  She leaned back against the casket, feeling desperately fatigued. Even if a chance presented itself, she couldn’t escape. She’d have to stay until she had worked out a plan of rescue.

  And for that, she first needed to discover where the queen and princess were being held.

  Wearily, she
looked back at the steaming water. Part of her wanted to flaunt her bloodied and filthy state at Tacitus. But another part, entwined with feminine pride and her perilously fragile self-respect, balked at the notion.

  Gritting her teeth, she shuffled on her knees across the ground, rescuing her torque on the way. Her belt was laying on a chair—removed from her while she was unconscious—and with some difficulty she managed to squeeze the torque into one of the leather pouches attached to it. Tacitus might have stolen her dagger but he hadn’t appeared to have taken any other personal possession. Somehow, the knowledge irked her.

  Laboriously, she cleansed her body as best she could and then started on her hair. It became progressively harder to breathe, as if all the air was being sucked out of the tent, and her heart pounded an erratic staccato against her ribs.

  She screwed her eyes shut, then opened them. But the light continued to diminish, as though she entered an avenue of massive oaks that hid the sun from view. Her vision spun and stomach pitched and, with a detached sense of disbelief, she felt tears prick her eyes.

  But she never cried. She hadn’t even cried when her mother…

  The thought hovered, unformed, yet it haunted the darkest recesses of her mind. She wouldn’t think of her mother. Not now. But even as she struggled to focus, to finish rinsing her hair, the darkness swallowed up the interior of the tent and invaded her senses and with a sigh of exhaustion, she sank into oblivion.

  ***

  It was the seventh hour before Tacitus had time to check on his Celt. Since leaving her five hours ago, his anger had mellowed and, while it was highly unorthodox, he decided to share the late midday meal with her. She’d likely be hungry again. It had been four hours since he’d instructed food to be sent to her.

  As he marched back to his quarters, an auxiliary following laden down with the more appetizing rations on offer, he hoped she was in a more agreeable mood. Even as the thought formed, amusement flashed through him. Who else of his acquaintance would consider, let alone hope, that his slave’s mood might be agreeable?