Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3)

by Christina Phillips

  The legionary snapped to attention at his approach and pulled back the flap of the tent. Tacitus entered and instead of being greeted by caustic words or even a frosty silence, Nimue lay crumpled on the ground next to the bathtub.

  And she was naked.

  With a livid curse, he unclasped his fibula, swung the cloak from his shoulders and covered her chilled body.

  “Get out.” He shot the auxiliary a deadly glare, and the man placed the basket of food on the casket and left as if nothing was untoward. As soon as he was alone, Tacitus knelt by Nimue’s side. If anyone had dared touched her, he would have them flogged to within an inch of their miserable existence. For one torturous moment, the face of his commander flashed into his brain. But the commander would never take what belonged to another. “Nimue, can you hear me?”

  She shivered, and snuggled farther into his cloak as if the warmth comforted her. Her hair was unbound, tangled about her face, and disappeared beneath his cloak. But in that brief moment before he’d covered her, he’d seen how it curled in glorious abandonment to her waist.

  He reached for her, before recalling her injury. With difficulty, he maneuvered her into his arms without placing undue pressure on her shoulder. Only as he lifted her did he catch sight of the untouched plate of food lying on the ground next to his casket.

  No wonder she’d fainted. She hadn’t eaten.

  Carefully, he lowered her to the bed. Her eyelashes flickered and she looked up at him and in that unguarded moment, he recognized a rare glimpse of utter trust.

  It stabbed through his chest, as tangible as a dagger.

  “Tacitus.” Her voice was husky from sleep, undeniably alluring. He knew he should rise from his knees, sit on the edge of the bed, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to risk the possibility of shattering this moment.

  No one would ever know that he knelt by her side.

  He offered her a drink from his own water skin and she gulped inelegantly, clearly parched. “You didn’t eat.” It was a gentle admonishment. Yet she had washed. And by so doing, had exhausted her fragile resources.

  He should have returned earlier. How long had she lain on the ground, unaware and exposed?

  A slow frown crinkled her brow, as she attempted to process his words.

  “I don’t know what happened.” Her frown intensified, and he saw the precise moment when her vulnerability hit her and wariness replaced the trust. He tried not to care. What did it matter? And yet, somehow, it did. “There must be a residue of your heathen drug still in my blood.”

  It was possible, but he doubted it. “How are you feeling now?” Gods, he sounded like a physician. His father would be rendered speechless if he knew his beloved son spoke in such a manner to a woman so far beneath his social status.

  Then again, Tacitus’ actions in such matters had often reduced his father to speechlessness.

  Nimue’s frown mutated into a scowl and she struggled to sit up. He didn’t offer to assist, since first he was certain she would refuse and secondly it was entertaining to watch her trying to keep his cloak wrapped around her while she wriggled into position.

  “I’ve never been so incapacitated.” She sounded distressed, although she still glared at him. “It’s humiliating.”

  “It will soon pass.” If her blood had poisoned, she would already be showing the symptoms. “I regret you were shot, as if you were an enemy. It should never have occurred.”

  Her glare faded and she looked confused.

  “But I am your enemy. I only wonder that you didn’t strike me down yourself.”

  Her fingers peeked from between the folds of his cloak. He covered them with his hand in a blatant gesture of possessiveness. She didn’t protest.

  “I told you.” He didn’t bother hiding his amusement. “I don’t fight women. You posed no threat to me or the Empire. Why would I strike you down?”

  “Had our positions been reversed I would have had no hesitation in striking you down.” She sounded irritated.

  How enchanting she believed herself capable of felling a warrior. The conversation reminded him of the one they’d shared at the stream, before he’d had no choice but to make her his slave.

  “I’d like to see you try.” He knew some Celtic women fought alongside their men-folk but they were built like men themselves. Or so he had heard. Personally, he’d not faced any in battle and for that he was relieved. The thought of killing a woman, even a woman who thought herself as good as a man, horrified him.

  “You would not have time to see.” Nimue’s eyes darkened before his gaze. “If I struck, you’d be dead before you realized what had happened.”

  Gently he pulled her hand from the folds of his cloak. She didn’t resist. Still holding onto her, he traced the fingers of his other hand along her slender forearm. Her skin was smooth, warm and gave a tantalizing glimpse of how the rest of her body would feel beneath his questing touch.

  “This isn’t the arm of a woman who wields a sword.” He thought of his noble Roman-born mother; of her admirable womanly skills. “Although your prowess with the loom is doubtless exemplary.”

  She stared at him as if she hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about. Did Celt women not take pride in their weaving abilities, as did the noblewomen of Rome? Nimue’s gown had been of the finest quality and she was no peasant, yet she appeared not to realize he’d just paid her a high compliment.

  “I don’t possess a sword.” Her gaze dropped to watch as he toyed with her silver bracelets. They were all intricately engraved, but one in particular drew his attention. It showed the passage of the moon during the course of a monthly cycle, and interspersed between each lunar image was a detailed engraving of an owl. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, it appeared oddly familiar. “What have you done with my dagger?”

  He abandoned her bracelets and once again caught her mesmeric gaze.

  “You have no need for your dagger.” Just because he knew she couldn’t kill him didn’t mean he wasn’t fully aware she could cause him severe injury if she attacked him while he slept. He’d secured it with his own weapons. “I’ll protect you against any who might wish you harm.”

  “Noble Roman.” There was a hint of mockery but her fingers slid between his, and he wondered if she was even aware of her action. “Who will protect me from you?”

  His finger slid up her delicately defined biceps, and he knuckled his cloak aside. Her slender neck, unmarred shoulder and arm and delectable breast tempted his reason and it was a struggle to recall that, beneath the left side of his cloak, she had been shot.

  “Do you need protecting from me?” He trailed his fingers across her collarbone. Her breath whispered from between her parted lips but she didn’t attempt to push him away. “Do you fear I will harm you, Nimue?”

  “I don’t fear you.” She said the words as if she didn’t even have to think about them. As if the notion he might hurt her had never seriously crossed her mind. The knowledge that she trusted him to that degree, even if it was a trust she hadn’t acknowledged to herself, caused an odd glow to ignite deep inside his chest.

  His fingers traced across the creamy swell of her breast and she hitched in an uneven breath. Heart thudding, he circled her erect nipple and imagined sucking the tempting bud until she gasped with mindless need.

  “I want to see your naked body, Nimue.” He tried to repress the raw need hammering through his blood but only partially succeeded. He knew she was injured. He would be mindful. But gods, he needed relief.

  “You can already see it, Roman.” Was that a hint of amusement in her tone? She hadn’t blushed at his words, nor had she affected outrage. He tightened his grip on her hand, and rolled her exquisite nipple between his finger and thumb. Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue peeked out. As if in deliberate provocation.

  “Not well enough.” He loosened his grip on her hand and bracketed her wrist, slowly sliding his palm up her arm, over her firm biceps, across her shoulder and down the
smooth contour of her back. “I want to suck on your nipples until you writhe in delight, tease your clitoris with my tongue and thrust my cock so deep inside you that you scream for mercy.”

  ***

  Nimue fought against the seductive images Tacitus’ promises evoked. But his fingers, teasing her sensitive nipple, caused ripples of lust from the tip of her breast to the core of her being. And between her thighs she was tender, wet and Goddess help her, starving for his touch.

  Had he been any other man, she wouldn’t be fighting this savage attraction that was unlike anything she’d experienced before. But he was a Roman. He would always be a Roman and if she succumbed to the dark desire pounding through her blood how could she live with herself afterward?

  “I would never scream for mercy.” Her voice was raw, her words breathless. She could deny she wanted him but he would need to be dead not to see she lied. “No matter what torture you inflict upon me.”

  And the worst torture of all was that he would cease touching her treacherous flesh. That was the truth. The secret shame she would die before ever revealing. The knowledge that she enjoyed his touch, craved his touch, and wanted him more than she had ever wanted a man before.

  “Is this torture?” His breath drifted across her lips. When had he leaned so close to her? “I would inflict nothing but pleasure upon your body. Do you doubt me?”

  No, she did not doubt him at all. His hand cradled the curve of her buttock, as if he had every right to hold her so intimately. And instead of outrage at his possessive manner she wanted more.

  Unable to help herself she flattened her hand against his chest. He wasn’t wearing armor, only a tunic with a wide purple stripe and she could feel the strong thud of his heart vibrating through her fingers.

  She wanted him naked too. The thought crippled her, but it made no difference. He was polluting her senses as surely as his healer’s heathen drug had.

  Her fingers fisted, crushing his linen, and the unyielding expanse of muscle beneath her hand caused ripples of delight to chase across her exposed skin. This morn, she had been mesmerized by the tantalizing glimpse of his naked body. Had been unable to tear her fascinated gaze from his magnificent cock.

  All that masculine perfection was now within her grasp. She could have him. Sate her need. Rid this fever from her blood.

  And then she could devote her entire concentration on…

  Her mission. The Briton queen.

  Relief washed through her. She could live with that decision. It was a strategic decision, one that would clear her mind, calm her body and, simultaneously, lower both Tacitus’ suspicion and obsessive desire for her.

  There was one thing she needed to know.

  “Afterward, will you let me go?”

  His eyes darkened and his hands tightened over her bottom and breast. She dragged in a constricted breath and struggled to concentrate. Goddess, the sooner they both achieved orgasm the better. Only then would she be able to endure his touch without constantly fantasizing how it would feel to have him inside her.

  “Let you go?” He was so close to her his lips brushed hers. A tantalizing whisper of a touch that promised so much. “No, Nimue. I have no intention of letting you go yet.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Nimue attempted to dredge up disappointment that Tacitus had no intention of releasing her the moment after she’d had him, but failed.

  Besides, she didn’t want him to discard her instantly. If she was ejected from his camp, how much harder would it be to find the queen? Especially with her injured shoulder. She needed a few more days with this Roman, just to regain her former strength.

  His plans for her suited her. She could enjoy his body without guilt that she was betraying her people.

  Because she was doing this for her people. But still a sliver of guilt ate through her heart. Should she really feel such lust and anticipation at having her enemy? Shouldn’t her mind and body recoil at what she intended to do?

  With an uneasy feeling that she was attempting to make excuses for the way her body responded to Tacitus’ touch, she pushed the thought aside. She couldn’t afford to become distracted from her purpose. She struggled to recall his last remark. He has no intention of letting me go.

  “And I have no say in this matter?” She trailed her hand over his shoulder and dragged her fingers along the proud line of his jaw. He was rough against her skin and vague recollections of having done this once before plagued the outer reaches of her mind.

  “No.” His voice was husky. “You’ll stay with me until I decide otherwise.”

  She speared her fingers through his short hair and marveled at her lack of indignation at his arrogance. But then, what did it matter what he said? When she was ready to leave, she would. After all, she wasn’t staying with him because he commanded it.

  Or because I want to. Yet that thought lacked conviction and her fingers tightened involuntarily in his hair. Of course she didn’t want to stay with him. She was simply using the circumstances to her best advantage.

  “Is this the way of your world, Roman? To give your women no choice?” Not that she was really interested in his world. She had no intention of ever living in it so his customs were of no interest. It was only a ploy to show token resistance to his authority. She didn’t want him to suspect her real motive for succumbing to the lust between them.

  Except, unaccountably, she wanted to hear his answer.

  With infinite care, he lifted his cloak from her, leaving her entirely naked beneath his intense gaze. Her nipples tightened and shivers raced over her skin as she saw his jaw clench and heard his sharp intake of breath. Never before had merely a look from a man caused her body to respond this way and instinctively she arched her back so her breasts thrust enticingly toward him.

  “What choice do you need?” His full attention was focused on her breasts. “You’re with me. You’re mine.”

  She was wet with need, lust curled deep in her womb and yet his casual words of possession pounded through her blood. He said them as if they were the natural order. As though he was merely repeating something she should already be aware of.

  Her senses urged her to ignore him. He could say what he wished and none of it touched her. All that mattered was that they fucked so Tacitus would lower his guard around her. And yet she couldn’t remain silent.

  “I’m with you, but I’ll never be yours.”

  Finally he dragged his attention from her breasts and looked at her. There was a smile of masculine satisfaction on his face. Did he think her words meaningless?

  “Nimue.” The way he said her name in his exotic Roman accent caused quivers of desire deep in her pussy. He trailed his fingers up her body and cradled her jaw between his hands. His fingers branded her flesh, blatantly possessive, and instead of outrage flooding her at the thought, she didn’t want him to stop. Her chest tightened, lungs contracted, making it almost impossible to draw breath. “Why must you question this? You want me as much as I want you.” His lips grazed hers, a kiss as insubstantial as mist in the morn yet fire scorched low in her belly and curled with seductive promise around her clit.

  She knew she should keep her thoughts to herself and not question his every word. That wasn’t the way to gain his trust. She should agree with him so he imagined her malleable and not a threat.

  “I know.” Their lips brushed as she spoke and sharp desire spiked between her thighs, splintering all thought of stoking his male Roman pride. Did he intend to drive her insane before taking her? Her hand slid from his head and feverishly she fisted his linen and pulled, wanting him naked and on the bed with her. “Remove your tunic.”

  For a moment, he looked startled. Had a woman ever commanded such a thing from him before? But then, with an irresistible smile, he obeyed without further question. And once again she feasted on the magnificent sight of his broad shoulders, his muscular chest and taut abdomen.

  He looked like a foreign bronzed god, and although the notion should hav
e repulsed, it served only to heighten the need thundering through her veins and incinerating her reason.

  “Come here.” Her voice was hoarse and she reached out to drag him from the ground. Pain lanced through her shoulder and she gasped, her arm dropping uselessly onto her lap. How had she forgotten about her injury? This insane lust fogged all her senses. A deadly condition for a warrior.

  Before she had time to mask her unthinking reaction he was on the bed beside her, looming over her like a predator guarding its prey. But despite the lust that glowed in his eyes, she detected concern too.

  “Be careful.” He brushed her hair back from her face in an oddly tender gesture. “You don’t want to reopen the wound.”

  Of course she didn’t, but she didn’t appreciate him telling her that as if she was ignorant. Yet even as the thought flared through her mind, uncertainty hovered. Why was he so concerned for her comfort?

  “I have no intention of reopening my wound.” Her voice was breathless and the lingering pain in her shoulder faded as desire thudded through her veins. He was so close that his uneven breath dusted across her face. She wanted to crush her aching breasts against his chest, slide her wet pussy along his rigid cock and relieve the exquisite pressure spiraling through her clit.

  A stifled moan of frustration razed her throat. If she wasn’t hampered by her injury she would do all that and more to him.

  “You tempt me beyond reason.” He wound his arm around her waist, his hand supporting her between her shoulder blades. His other arm slid under her knees and before she quite realized his intention she was flat on her back. She glared up at him, torn between indignation at his maneuver and a delicious sense of helplessness. Since when have I ever enjoyed the sensation of helplessness? Tacitus’ grin at her submissive position was worthy of any of the trickster gods of her people. “Now you are fully within my power.”

  His words should infuriate her. But against all reason they didn’t. Perhaps it was his smile that took the threat from his words. “If my arm wasn’t useless,” she was compelled to inform him. “You wouldn’t find it so easy to pin me to the mattress.”