Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3)

by Christina Phillips

Unfortunately, that time was not now. They would scarcely have time to eat before they needed to leave.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her wriggle upright, her breasts jiggling with every move she made. She didn’t attempt to cover herself with his cloak. She obviously didn’t mind in the least that he found it all but impossible not to stare at her naked breasts and ripe, rosy nipples.

  Hunger gripped low in his gut, and it wasn’t hunger for the food he offered her.

  Abruptly he stood and marched back to his casket. If he didn’t cover temptation he would likely succumb once again, and that was intolerable. Every moment that passed increased the possibility of interruption from another tribune.

  “I don’t recognize half of what’s in this basket,” Nimue said, sounding put upon. “Do you have nothing that is not imported from your precious Rome?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and couldn’t help himself. “Yes. I have you.” His humor was short-lived when he trod on something sharp. Bending, he picked up one of Nimue’s earrings. “Besides, it’s not all imported. Just eat, unless you wish your stomach to continue to complain for the rest of the day.”

  When she didn’t respond to his taunt, satisfaction curled through him. Now she accepted that she belonged to him, now that he truly possessed her, her sharp tongue had mellowed. Certainly, he didn’t want her to agree with his every word—he doubted she would ever do such a thing. But finally she would realize acceptable boundaries.

  He retrieved his key ring that had fallen to the ground along with his tunic, and began to unlock the casket. It was already unlocked. Frowning, he stared at it. Surely he hadn’t forgotten to lock it last night, after he’d put the embroidered Celtic bag inside?

  He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d taken the bag after Marcellus had appropriated the contents. He didn’t have any use for it. It certainly wasn’t because of the insidious sliver of doubt that the bag belonged to Nimue.

  There was no possible connection between Nimue and the bag. Because if the bag was hers then she had been traveling with Caratacus’ queen. That would point to her being connected to the royal family and possibly having information on the Briton king’s whereabouts. If she was suspected of being the healer who had tended to the princess’ injury, Nimue would be interrogated. The fact she was his slave wouldn’t save her from that.

  He had vowed to protect her from his fellow countrymen. Just because Nimue had healer knowledge didn’t make her the owner of that bag.

  But still he had hidden it, to prevent any further investigation into who might have once possessed it.

  Another glance over his shoulder confirmed Nimue was eating, even though she had a pained expression on her face. He turned back to the casket and lifted the lid. Under the top layer of linen the bag remained. It didn’t look as if anything had been disturbed. Surely if Nimue had taken advantage of discovering an unlocked casket, she would have rummaged through it? And if that bag had belonged to her, wouldn’t she have taken it?

  Still frowning, he found what he was searching for and locked the casket before sliding the key ring back onto his finger and dropping her earring on the lid.

  “Here.” He laid the plain white tunic over her feet. “You can wear that until I find you something more suitable.”

  She barely gave it a glance. “I won’t wear it. I’ll wear my own gown.”

  He paused in the process of helping himself to some bread. “Your gown is ruined. There’s nothing else available until we return to the garrison.” There were many markets in the settlement that had sprung up around the garrison. He’d easily be able to find her something more suitable.

  “I don’t care.” She appeared supremely unimpressed that he was offering her one of his own short tunics to wear. “I’d rather wear a tattered rag that is my own than something of Roman origin.”

  Irritation prickled through him. Why did she have to disagree with everything?

  “It’s covered in blood and filth and needs repair. If you wish, you may keep it, but you’re not wearing it until it’s been cleaned.”

  Finally she looked at him, her resentment clear on her face. “Of course I wish to keep it. It’s all the clothing I possess.” She waved her arm at him. “What about my bracelets? Do you have some obnoxious Roman jewelry you wish to exchange them for?”

  Anyone would think, by her attitude, that he’d just told her she would remain naked for the rest of the journey. Then, he could understand her anger. But he’d offered her a clean tunic. One of his own clean tunics, a gesture that would draw unwelcome attention from his fellow officers who would be as likely to offer a slave their own tunic as they would offer their horse.

  “Nimue.” It was a warning to be silent. Once again she was pushing too far.

  “Tacitus.” She mimicked his tone and maintained eye contact. By the gods, did she speak to all men in this manner? Or was it just him?

  “If you prefer, I’ll have your gown burned. Then the question will no longer arise.”

  Her fingers clenched around the bread she was holding. He wanted to maintain his rigid sense of injustice at her ingratitude, but it was hard when she was naked and her tangled hair tumbled over her tempting breasts. And when her bound shoulder was a constant reminder of how she had been injured.

  None of which improved his mood.

  “So you wish me to dress as one of your Roman noblewomen.” The derision in her voice was unmistakable. “It will take more than a gown to make me a Roman.”

  “I have no wish to transform you into a Roman noblewoman. I doubt Juno herself could manage such a miracle.” He snatched his discarded tunic from the ground and pulled it on. “And why you imagine I have women’s gowns in my casket I fail to comprehend. You’ll wear my tunic until such time as I decree otherwise.”

  Gods. He sounded like his father. The thought caused a hard knot to form in his chest.

  She glowered at him for a moment longer and then transferred her glare to the cursed tunic.

  “Very well.” Her voice was haughty. “I’ll wear your tunic on the condition you don’t burn my gown.”

  She was giving him ultimatums? He stared at her in stunned disbelief, not only at her audacity but at her sudden change of mind.

  He could remind her she was in no position to issue demands. But what did it matter? She had acquiesced to his command. It would be easier to simply allow her to believe she had gained a small victory.

  “Agreed.” Thank the gods no one would ever know of this conversation. He would be ridiculed throughout Rome for being unable to keep his own slave in check.

  The thought clawed through his brain. She was only a slave. But she was still unaware. All he needed to do was keep her in ignorance for another day. It shouldn’t be difficult. No legionary would dare approach her and his fellow officers wouldn’t engage her attention without his permission.

  She sniffed and picked at the linen between finger and thumb.

  “I need to consult with your healer.”

  He shot her a sharp glance. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” But she had told him her shoulder hurt. And he hadn’t thought to pursue it further because she hadn’t complained further. “Let me look.” He hoped the stitches were still intact.

  She looked at his hand, as he hovered over the bandage, as if she had no idea what he thought he was doing.

  “I’m not talking about my wound.” She pushed his hand aside with one disdainful finger. “I need to flush out my womb.”

  “You need…to what?” Had he heard correctly? Surely not. Flush out her womb? The implication of what she might mean sent shudders through him.

  She scowled as if she thought he was being deliberately obtuse.

  “Cleanse my womb of your seed, Tacitus. I have no desire to bear your bastard.” She made it sound as if that was the worst thing imaginable. In the outer reaches of his mind he wondered that he should be offended by her obvious disgust at such an outcome but it was a vague, insubstantial thought. B
ecause his senses were reeling with incredulity that a woman was discussing such things with him in the first place.

  A woman’s fertility was none of his concern. Not until he married. The lovers he’d taken in the past had never breathed a word about the possibility of conceiving his child, and he’d never inquired as to what they did to prevent such event from occurring.

  In truth, he had never considered the matter at all. He’d taken it for granted that the women would take the necessary precautions. That was what women did. It was only a man’s wife who was subject to his scrutiny.

  And a man’s slave. But he had never taken a slave before. Had never even been with a prostitute, and so the question of using a sheath to protect his health—and prevent conception—had never arisen.

  His glance slid to her belly. Was it possible she had conceived his child? The thought chilled his blood sufficiently to diminish his erection. Despite his privileged upbringing, he’d been acutely aware of the difference in status between him and his many half-sisters. He’d never wish such prejudice to touch his own child.

  Nimue’s child.

  “How likely is that…outcome?” He swallowed and mentally girded his loins. Perhaps she was already protected. Perhaps she was merely wishing to be absolutely certain.

  She gave an impatient sigh and shrugged her uninjured shoulder.

  “It is not likely.” She sounded disgruntled. “I’m still in my moon quarter so conception should be impossible. I merely wish to be prepared for the future.”

  Her moon quarter? Unease crawled along his spine. This was not talk meant for a man’s ears. How could she even broach this subject with him—and without a shred of embarrassment?

  She was his slave. Who else could she speak of it to?

  Slaves never mentioned such things to their masters. But then, Nimue was no ordinary slave and he had no wish to be her master in that sense of the word.

  For the last nine months, he’d been the second-in-command of the Legion; had strategized with the commander and led troops into battle. None of it compared to facing this woman and speaking of matters he had no business discussing with anyone.

  But he had no choice.

  “I’ll make the necessary arrangements for the future.” He knew he was scowling but it was the only way he managed to push the words along his throat. He’d speak to Marcellus. Face the inevitable mockery. But better that than having Nimue consult with his friend on such intimacies.

  Even before the thought finished forming, he saw her forehead crease, saw her preparing to once again dispute his word. But before her evident displeasure at his decision found voice, he heard the tent flap being ripped open, heard his commander make a sordid jest.

  “Cover yourself.” He barked the order at her, grabbing the edge of his cloak as he did so and for once, she didn’t argue. Instead, she wrapped his cloak around her, gripping the edges together at her throat so her body was entirely concealed.

  Tacitus swung back and glared as his commander strolled into the tent. The commander offered him a knowing grin before transferring his leer to Nimue.

  His grin slid from his face and an all too familiar look gleamed in the commander’s eyes. Infuriated, Tacitus stepped in front of Nimue and folded his arms. With clear reluctance, the commander refocused his gaze on Tacitus.

  “You’re behind schedule.” It was a reprimand. In front of Nimue. But as far as the commander was concerned, Nimue was only a slave. And one could say anything in front of a slave.

  It did nothing to alleviate the simmering anger roiling through Tacitus’ blood. Especially since the rebuke was deserved. He’d had no business taking Nimue when he was still on duty. And yet after she’d regained consciousness, he’d forgotten everything but the need to possess her.

  “Sir.” It could have been worse. Blandus could have accompanied his commander.

  Instead of leaving, the commander strolled farther into the tent, his attention on the bed. Tacitus stepped forward, blocking his advance. “Is that all, sir?”

  The older man regarded him. There was a calculating look on his face, an expression Tacitus had witnessed in the past but never before had it been directed at him, and never had it caused his gut to tighten with such rigid distaste.

  “We’ll talk later.” The commander’s voice was deceptively mild. He turned to leave then paused and glanced over his shoulder. “I understand, now, why Blandus was so pissed you reneged on your deal.” He shot Tacitus a mocking smile. “Don’t allow it to cause any professional ill-feeling. You understand?”

  He understood perfectly. Blandus had complained to his uncle who, having now seen Nimue, appreciated the situation.

  But that wasn’t the reason why the savage urge to smash his fist into his commander’s face thudded through his blood. His hands fisted by his sides, his muscles tensed in readiness for battle.

  His cousin held no threat. But after seeing Nimue, the casual interest in his commander’s eyes had been replaced by something far more dangerous.

  It was no longer mild amusement that Tacitus had bought a slave girl. Just as Tacitus had known he would, his commander lusted after Nimue.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Since Tacitus had no intention of allowing Nimue out of his sight during the journey, he once again defied convention and had her ride with him on his horse. But then again, she belonged to him. She was his personal responsibility. She could no sooner travel with the other slaves, who trudged in chains at the rear of the convoy, as she could ride with the injured legionaries in the medical wagons.

  The unsettling notion that he was making too many excuses for his actions crossed his mind, but he banished it with the contempt it deserved. He wasn’t making excuses. There was no other option.

  No other officer made any comment, and if they considered the fact she was wearing his cloak a breach of protocol, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

  Nimue sat in front of him, ramrod straight, as proud as a heathen queen. He wore his spare cloak, and had insisted she wrap his other one around her. She displayed far too much flesh wearing only his tunic. He’d been surprised she hadn’t argued, but also relieved. He hadn’t felt up to explaining his reasoning. How could he tell her he didn’t want his commander to see her naked thighs as she straddled the saddle?

  Even now, on the open road, he could detect a tantalizing hint of the wild, abandoned sex that soiled the cloak she wore.

  Involuntarily, his arm tightened around her waist. The tempting notion of fucking her once again blurred his vision and thickened his cock. So much for not thinking of her during the day. But how could he not when she was so close to him? When, despite her frigid posture, the curve of her delectable bottom nestled against his erection?

  He exhaled and tried not to think of her smooth, rounded buttocks. Tried not to imagine her bent over a couch, thighs spread, naked and willing and ready for him.

  Tried, and failed. Gods, it was going to be an agonizingly long journey before they camped for the night.

  ***

  Nimue glared straight ahead as the Roman Legions charged through her land. And she was at the front of the onslaught, held securely in Tacitus’ arm, as if he had every right to hold her so possessively.

  As they had started this journey, she’d caught sight of the other prisoners. They were chained together like animals, and herded into obedience.

  She’d been torn between relief and horror. Relief, that so many of the women and children who had been on the mountain had apparently escaped the Romans. And horror that not all of them had.

  The queen and princess had not been with the other women and children. It would seem the Romans knew exactly who they had captured, and were intent on ensuring their royal prisoners arrived without further harm at their destination.

  Her stomach had churned at her fleeting glimpse of the captives. A shaming relief streaked through her when she realized she didn’t know any of them, but that vanished instantly. It didn’t matter if they
were from a different tribe than hers. They had all come together with one goal in mind. To rid Cymru and Britain of the invaders.

  And now they were enslaved to the Roman Empire.

  How had she escaped that fate? If another Roman had found her by the stream, would she be chained with the other captives now? A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach at the thought. But the question echoed in her mind.

  It was more than the fact Tacitus wanted her to warm his bed. He—any of the Romans—could take any of the enslaved they desired, and the Celts would have no choice in the matter.

  She was the daughter of a high-ranking noble. Royal blood flowed in her foremothers’ ancestry. She was a chosen one of the Moon Goddess herself, descended from powerful Druids in an unbroken line since the beginning of Creation.

  Arianrhod—or perhaps even Arawn, the lord of the Otherworld—had ensured she remained free for a purpose. So she could complete her mission, return the queen to Caratacus and then they could continue the fight against the Romans.

  ***

  They finally halted as dusk hovered overhead. She dismounted and ignored the tremors of lust that assailed her as Tacitus’ strong hands spanned her waist in unwanted assistance.

  She turned to face him and with seeming reluctance, he released her.

  “Remain here. I will return shortly.” But he didn’t leave instantly, perhaps waiting for her to confirm obedience to his command.

  He would wait forever. She tightened her one-handed grip on his cloak, hating how his scent permeated the scarlet wool yet at the same time offered her a sense of false security.

  “Your Legion is diminished.” Was it a tactical error? Somehow she couldn’t believe the Romans had accidentally lost a vast portion of their numbers. Yet it was quite obviously so.

  Tacitus looked taken aback by her observation. It was obvious he hadn’t imagined she would notice such things.

  “Only marginally.” For a moment she thought he was going to say more, to elaborate, but instead he brushed his fingers over her tangled hair. “Don’t attempt to escape. I can’t guarantee your safety outside this camp.”