“I love learning new ways to heal.” The knowledge of the Druids was vast and went back countless generations. How ancient was the knowledge of the Romans? “My grandmother was a revered healer. I knew I wanted to follow her path when I was but three summers old.”
His lip quirked, clearly amused that she had been so strong-minded at such a tender age. “How fortunate you were permitted to follow your heart’s desire.”
Although he smiled, there was something in his tone that intrigued her.
She threaded her fingers through his as they cradled her hip. “Did you not always wish to be a great Roman warrior, Tacitus?” She’d taken it for granted that he was following his choice of career. But then, what did she truly know of a Roman’s choice of career?
“My career was preordained before I was even conceived.” He gave a short laugh but he didn’t sound especially amused anymore. “My mother wishes me to secure an excellent military record and then progress to the highest echelons of the Senate.”
It was the second time he’d referred to his mother in such a manner that clearly showed how deeply he respected her. While she admired him for it, she couldn’t help wondering about his father. “And what does your father wish for you?”
He gave her an oddly haunted look, although she couldn’t imagine why her question appeared to wound him. “That is my father’s wish.” There was a hollow note to his voice that pierced her heart. “My mother’s dearest desire is that I please him.”
Nimue couldn’t tear her gaze from him. It was wrong that his evident familial conflict touched her so, but it did. And the fleeting glimpse of vulnerability that had flickered in his eyes at the mention of his mother’s dearest desire tormented her. Why was he so torn between his parents’ ambitions for his future when both his mother and father appeared to be in accord?
“But what do you want to do with your life, Tacitus?”
He stared at her and she had the strangest certainty that no one had ever asked him that question before. She held her breath, prayed to her Goddess that Marcellus wouldn’t appear yet, and willed Tacitus to tell her his deepest, darkest secret.
“I intend to go into law,” he said at last and she frowned, bemused. That didn’t sound so terribly rebellious or shocking to her. “And for that, naturally, I need an excellent military record and influential support from members of the Senate.” There was no mistaking the edge of contempt in his words. It was obvious the fact he was required to follow his father’s designated career path, in order to secure his own, rankled.
She tried to see it from his view, but couldn’t. As a matter of course, Druids learned all aspects of their culture that had evolved since the time of Creation, including the intricacies of their laws. An acolyte specialized according to their special gifts and the will of their heart, but it didn’t stop them from becoming an esteemed scholar in more than one discipline.
And then something occurred to her. “Your father doesn’t wish you to practice your laws? Is it not an honorable career in Rome?”
“No, it’s an honorable career path. But whereas my father wishes me to use my time in the courts as a stepping stone in my political advancement, I intend it to be far more than that.”
“More?” Enthralled, Nimue leaned toward him, delighting in the evocative scent of leather and forests and horse that emanated from him. “What do—”
Her question lodged in her throat as the door swung open and Marcellus entered. She swallowed her disappointment, along with the haunting certainty that the moment had been lost forever.
Tacitus would never confide in her like that again. Because she could no longer delay making plans for the queen’s escape.
“And how is my favorite patient?” Marcellus shot Tacitus a grin, clearly daring him to respond, but Tacitus remained silent, although his fingers tightened against her hip.
“I’m recovering well.” Should she mention that she had taken the opium? It was, after all, the reason Tacitus had insisted they come to see the healer.
“Nimue had a bad reaction to the opium.” Tacitus glanced at her and she understood what he was saying. Marcellus could know she had taken the opium, but not her method.
Marcellus’ grin faded into a frown. “Were you nauseous? Disoriented?”
“Yes,” Tacitus said before she could respond. “I merely want you to ensure that she is suffering from no lingering aftereffects.”
Any other time she would have taken offense at the way he answered for her. But since she was not entirely certain how much to confide in Marcellus, she decided to hold her tongue. The look Tacitus shot her conveyed that he was both surprised and relieved at her forbearance.
Marcellus continued to ask questions as he examined her shoulder and the back of her head where she’d hit it on the rock. Surely he would question why she’d taken the opium now when there was no need? But he didn’t.
Finally he pronounced her well enough and she gave a silent sigh of relief. There was something she wanted to ask of him. It was the reason she hadn’t argued when Tacitus had suggested they visit Marcellus. And although there was no need—after all, she would be leaving soon and what did another night or two truly matter—she wanted to make the most of the time she had left with Tacitus.
“There’s something else.”
The two men turned and looked at her and she gave Tacitus a reassuring smile, since the alarm that flashed in his eyes was oddly endearing.
“It’s unconnected to my injuries. But it’s a matter that I’ve wanted to speak with you about for some time.” Since she’d met Tacitus, and although it was only six days it somehow seemed she had known her Roman for so much longer than that.
“You didn’t mention any other problem.” Tacitus sounded irked by the fact and she gave him a comforting pat on the arm before turning back to Marcellus. Who had a look of combined disbelief and barely concealed amusement warring for dominance on his face.
“I would dearly like,” she said, “the means to prevent conception and cleanse my womb of—”
“Nimue!” Tacitus sounded as if he was being strangled. “I’ve taken care of this.”
She glanced at him and then couldn’t look away. The expression on his face suggested she had just grievously insulted his honor when all she’d been trying to do was make things easier for them.
Once again she reached out and curled her fingers around his biceps. Goddess, she enjoyed touching him. How dreadfully she would miss this contact. “I know. But I don’t like the feel of that…” What had he called it? “Condom. And it’s an odious task to perform when we should be thinking of nothing but each other.”
This time it was Marcellus who choked. Tacitus simply stared at her in what looked like rising horror. She slid her hand along his arm and threaded her fingers through his. What had she said that was so terrible? Tacitus was her lover and Marcellus was a healer. It wasn’t as if she had shared such intimacies with his servants or strangers, was it?
“Alas,” Marcellus sounded like a fist blocked his throat. “I’m not conversant in such feminine matters.”
Aghast at such lack of basic knowledge, Nimue stared at him. “But understanding the cycle of the moon and her power over her children is one of the fundamental teachings for healers.” Certainly, the moon governed women in a more noticeable manner but men were just as bound by her rule. She was, after all, the One who presided over fertility—and provided the means for counterbalance.
“Gods.” Tacitus gripped her arm and swung her around. “Marcellus is a physician in the Legions, Nimue. He has no need for such understandings.”
“If you have no objection, Tacitus,” Marcellus said, “I would be interested to hear what Nimue has to say. I’m always open to new ideas.”
Nimue nearly spluttered at the thought of such knowledge being new but instantly realized what the healer had just revealed. A willingness to learn. Was it possible she would be able to trade knowledge with him after all?
“Very well
.” Tacitus’ voice was stiff. It was obvious the concession gave him great pain. “But I insist on absolute confidentiality in this matter.”
“You have it.” Marcellus turned to Nimue and there was no mistaking the anticipation in his eyes. “Would you care to visit the herb gardens?”
***
The herb garden, situated in a paved area in the center of the four-sided Valetudinarium, was impressive. With Tacitus hovering beside her, a dark scowl on his face, she traded tidbits with Marcellus in exchange for acquiring the herbs she needed.
As well as a couple she didn’t. But the impulse to take the plants that induced sleep was overwhelming, and since they were also useful in pain relief Marcellus didn’t query when she added them to her pile.
She wasn’t entirely sure why she needed them. She had no intention of using them on Tacitus in order to facilitate her escape. To do so would somehow be an insult to her honor, although she didn’t investigate that emotion too closely. Shouldn’t she be prepared to use every weapon possible to gain the advantage?
When they finally left Marcellus, the sun had dipped low in the sky. A sudden burst of loud, raucous laughter ripped through the cocoon of tranquility that had settled around her and she swung about. A group of legionaries lounged against the wall of the prisoners building, jostling each other and trading coarse jests.
Horror crawled along her spine as she watched one of the Romans saunter up to the door and enter. Instinctively her hand went to her shoulder, searching for an arrow, but her bow was no longer her constant companion.
“Nimue.” Tacitus’ voice was low. “Come away.”
Rage boiled in the pit of her stomach. “It’s wrong, Tacitus.” Her voice was as low as his, although the legionaries appeared oblivious to their presence.
“I know.”
His simple agreement, without any attempt at justifying the situation, pierced through her outrage. She looked up at him, in the dying rays of the sun, and saw a hard gleam in his eyes as he glared at the legionaries.
This was what he had saved her from. With a flash of insight she knew that, if it was within his power, he would have done the same for all the captives. Given them the freedom she now enjoyed, even if that freedom came at the price of being called…his slave.
She bit her lip and frowned back at the legionaries. While she had willingly shared Tacitus’ bed, her people had been subject to unrelenting rape and abuse. And while she would have been a liability with an injured shoulder, her wound was sufficiently healed for her to now take up the mantle of responsibility.
A hollow sensation filled her chest at the knowledge that she didn’t have the luxury of even another day with Tacitus. Was that why Arianrhod had called her into the higher realms? To remind Nimue of her responsibilities? Tacitus had served his purpose. It was time to serve hers. She needed to strategize and execute her plans, and quickly, before further harm befell the captives.
“I must help them, Tacitus.” The words fell from her lips before she could prevent them, but as horror at her unguarded tongue flooded through her, it was instantly calmed by the strange certainty that she had done the right thing.
Tacitus wouldn’t condemn her for speaking from her heart.
His heavy sigh weaved through her blood and sank into the hidden depths of her soul. Instinctively she clasped his hand, as though on some level it was him who needed comfort. “There’s nothing you can do. This is an inevitable repercussion of war.”
She pressed closer and fought against the absurd sting of tears that prickled the back of her eyes. There was something she could do to save her people but she couldn’t tell Tacitus of the plan beginning to form in her mind.
She could only share with him her half-formed preparations. “I could give them clean clothes. Blankets. It’s not much but it might help ease conditions.”
As Tacitus turned to give her a brooding look, something cracked deep inside her breast. She wanted to give the prisoners the clothes she and the seamstress had made during the last few days. Yes, it would ease conditions—and when they escaped they wouldn’t look as if they’d been held captive.
Yet lying to Tacitus, even though she had no choice if she wanted to help her people survive, hurt more than she had ever imagined possible.
“Is that why you went there today? To see what conditions they were living in?” There was a guarded note in his voice as though that possibility had only just occurred to him.
“Yes.” She wondered that he could hear her response, her voice was so choked with tears she could never allow to fall.
“That could be arranged.” There was the slightest hint of suspicion in his voice as if he doubted her true motives, but at least he’d agreed. She should be elated at this added concession but all she felt was the acrid scorch of betrayal. “I’ll inform the legionary on guard duty tomorrow to expect you.” His grip around her hand tightened. “Don’t try anything dangerous, Nimue.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
In the back of her mind, Nimue knew this night was the last night they would have together. She couldn’t allow her people to continue in their captivity, and she could no longer delay in fulfilling her pledge to Caratacus to safely deliver his queen and daughter to the land of the Brigantes.
When they finished their meal, Tacitus dismissed his servants and showed her the kitchen, where she would prepare her herbal teas in the morn. But she didn’t want to think of the following day. Because that was the day she would say goodbye to Tacitus forever.
He avoided all mention of her unauthorized visit to the prisoners or the way she had taken the opium. Instead, he appeared fascinated by the magic of her herbs. And, against the unwritten laws of her people, she found herself telling him of the ways a woman could assist or prevent conception. She trailed the tip of her finger along the table in the center of the room. “Is such knowledge denied to the women of Rome?”
“It’s not something I’ve ever considered.” He sounded as though he confessed to a great sin. “If such knowledge was freely available, perhaps it would have saved my adoptive mother great heartache.”
His adoptive mother? She trawled frantically through the conversations they had shared. He’d mentioned his mother several times. It had never occurred to her that she had traveled onto the next stage of her journey.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” How long ago had it occurred? No wonder he sounded so tortured when he spoke of his mother’s wish for his future career. And yet…her thoughts tumbled, uncertain. He had always spoken of her as if she was still in the mortal realm.
Tacitus frowned, seemingly baffled. “My loss?”
Nimue fought the urge to squirm. She had the feeling she completely misunderstood his words but had no idea in what way. “Of your birth mother,” she clarified, as heat washed through her. “It’s—hard to accept.” Such an understatement. Even with the passage of fourteen full moons since her own mother’s murder, the wound remained raw in her heart.
Tacitus’ frown faded, but his intense gaze didn’t waver. “My birth mother still lives, Nimue.” His voice was gentle, as if he realized her confusion but his words merely confused her further. How could he possess an adoptive mother if his blood mother still survived?
“I don’t understand.” The admission hurt, but not as much as it would have a quarter moon ago. “When you spoke to me before of your mother, of whom were you referring?”
He smiled, but it was a pensive smile and she couldn’t help but cradle his jaw in her hand, or caress the corner of his lips with her thumb. She didn’t like to see her Roman sad.
How far she had fallen in so short a time.
“I spoke to you of them both.” He took her braid and allowed the heavy rope to slide along his fingers. “My birth mother, whose gods I worship in her name and my noble Roman mother, whose forbearance often shames me.” He heaved a sigh and wound her braid around his fist. “Their ambitions for me are identical. A mirror image of my esteemed father’s.”
Mesmerized both by his entrancing violet eyes and the insight to his life, Nimue swayed closer until their bodies all but touched. A possible answer to his domestic arrangements fluttered through her mind.
Sometimes, despite every endeavor, a woman failed to conceive a dearly wished for babe. In those cases, her sister or close relation might offer the sanctuary of her own womb. It was a precious gift and not lightly given and in such cases the babe did, most assuredly, possess the love of two mothers at the same time.
“Your adoptive mother was barren,” she said, sure she was right. “And your birth mother gave her and your father the greatest gift of all. You.”
If she expected him to be impressed by her deduction, she was mistaken. A shadow passed over his face, as though by laying out the facts so baldly she had somehow defiled him.
“Something like that.” There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. Before she could probe further he tugged her closer, her hair still wrapped around his fist. “What happened to your mother, Nimue?”
His question was so unexpected she gaped up at him. How did he know something had happened to her mother? She had never so much as breathed a word about her mother to him.
“Was she killed during the invasion?” He was frowning again and there was a note of regret in his voice, as if he knew the answer already. And only then did she remember her words to him when she’d thought his birth mother had continued her journey.
Her Roman was too astute when it came to her. The knowledge didn’t irk her, as it would if anyone else had shown such insight, but she didn’t want to dwell on that uncomfortable fact.
“Yes.” It was a simple answer for an event so traumatic she could barely bring herself to think of it. She hoped he wouldn’t press the issue, and after a brooding look that caused her heart to squeeze in her breast, Tacitus gave a barely perceptible nod and wrapped his free arm around her in silent comfort.
Her tense muscles relaxed and she breathed in deep, relishing his masculine scent and the way his touch caused spirals of arousal to dance through her blood. She wound her arm around his tunic-clad waist and closed her eyes. She had to remember who she was and where her loyalty lay. But it didn’t ease the ache in her heart or the tightness in her throat. Tacitus’ heart thudded against her breasts, a bittersweet blend of comfort, desire and ultimate despair. How was it possible that one man could mean so much to her, when barely a quarter moon ago they hadn’t even met?
Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Page 20
