His words fueled the maelstrom of desire consuming her reason. There was no Cymru, no Rome; no deadly mission that would forever rip Tacitus from her arms. There was only now, this ethereal forever.
The last remnant of sanity shattered. “Yes.” It was a hoarse gasp that flayed her throat. The scent of sex and foreign spices filled her senses as she convulsed around his pounding cock. A scream shattered the lust-drenched air. Her scream of surrender, of betrayal, of a love that could never be. “Tacitus.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Wrapped in the cloak Tacitus had acquired for her, Nimue stood at the door of his quarters and watched him march across the wide Roman road that ran through the center of the fortification. A deep ache lodged in her heart as she committed this last sight of him to memory.
He didn’t glance back at her. She hadn’t expected him to. A Roman didn’t do such things in public. But how she wished that he had.
She missed his smile and his bewitching eyes already.
Slowly she closed the door and for a moment rested her forehead against the timber as a wave of dizziness washed through her. This morn, she would once again claim the mantle of her heritage and act as the warrior she was.
Her interlude as the plaything of a Roman officer was over. She had no right to feel so torn about her path. She’d had no right to fall in love with her enemy, her captor, the man who embodied everything she had always despised most in the world.
She straightened, and for a moment felt as ancient as if she had witnessed a hundred summers instead of merely twenty-two. After this day, she would never see Tacitus again. If they ever met in the future, she would be his deadly enemy and this time he wouldn’t be blinded by her apparent fragility or the fact she was a woman. He would see her for what she was. And he would crucify her for it.
A shudder racked her body as she turned and made her way to the room he called the kitchen. Whether she succeeded or failed in her mission—and failure wasn’t an option—Tacitus would never again welcome her into his arms. But oh, great Arianrhod of the Silver Wheel of Birth, Death and Rebirth, she would give anything—do anything—if only there could be a way for her and Tacitus to be together when all this was over.
***
As she waited for her herbs to steep so she could make the womb-cleansing tea for herself and the other captive women, she prepared a second brew containing the sleep-inducing herbs. Her plan was simple. Before she spoke to the women, she would offer the alternate brew to the guard. If he declined, it would be an annoyance but she had a backup in place.
Surreptitiously she glanced around the kitchen. Tacitus’ orders to his servants that she be allowed free rein in his kitchen were clearly being observed, but she was being ignored as if she didn’t exist. Another time that fact might have irked her, but now it gave her nothing but relief.
Stealthily she placed one of Tacitus’ brooches, or fibula as he called them, onto the table. It was made of silver and was decorated with precious gems, and guilt ate through her at how readily he had given it to her this morn when she’d admired it. Gritting her teeth, she inserted a third, potent, combination of the sleeping drugs into the shallow groove of the brooch where the pin would normally rest. Usually a more lethal concoction was used with darts but since she didn’t have the necessary means to make a blowpipe this would have to do. For while she could easily knock the seamstress unconscious, she couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself in hand-to-hand combat with a fully trained legionary. She would have to rely on her speed, and the legionary’s ignorance of her purpose, in order to stab the sleeping drugs into his bloodstream.
Carefully she slipped her weapon into a small leather pouch and tied it at her waist. Another quick glance around the kitchen confirmed that her actions had raised no suspicions. She poured herself a cup of the cleansing tea and filled a long-necked jug with the rest of the liquid.
With a sigh, she picked up her cup and raised it to her lips. And then she froze as an eerie shiver trickled along the back of her neck. Why did this feel wrong? The chill invaded the pit of her stomach as a dreadful thought occurred to her. Had she made a mistake with the ingredients or the special balance required?
Surely not. She’d made this many times in the past and the recipe was ingrained in her mind, along with every other remedy she had ever learned over the years. Although she’d never taken it herself before now, she was absolutely certain she had made no error.
So why can’t I bring myself to drink it?
She was approaching the fertile quarter of her moon cycle. Although the chance she’d conceived last night wasn’t high, neither was it impossible. To prevent even the smallest chance that Tacitus’ seed might bear fruit she owed it to her people and her Goddess to drink this tea.
Yet she remained motionless, as her stomach roiled with sudden nausea as a treacherous thought slid through her mind. Did she actively want to ensure that she didn’t conceive Tacitus’ child?
Could she truly curse her unborn babe to such a despised heritage?
Except she didn’t despise Tacitus. And the notion of having his child didn’t disgust her.
Far from it.
Before the thought finished forming, she swiftly poured the liquid back into the jug. Heart pounding, she sealed the top and waited long, agonizing moments before she could finish preparing the sleeping brew. Without another glance around the kitchen, as though the possibility of catching a servant’s eye might declare her guilt to all of Rome, she returned to the bedchamber.
Disjointed thoughts hammered through her mind. She refused to contemplate any of them. Instead she once again unlocked Tacitus’ casket, except this time the guilt that ate through her was a physical entity with jaws that clawed through her soul and left her bleeding.
She clenched her fists, took a deep breath and reminded herself why she was doing this. Tacitus would see it as a betrayal, but she wasn’t betraying him. She’d give her life to save him if she had to, but that was not her choice.
Her choice had been made and her honor pledged before she’d ever met him.
He would never see her as a warrior. It would never occur to him that she would willingly put her life in danger in order to carry out her orders. And yet he would expect nothing less had she been a man.
Would such knowledge cause him to think less of her, rather than more?
She didn’t know. She would never know. Perhaps that was just as well.
Her medicine bag was still buried beneath the linen and she dropped the pouches she had filled with Marcellus’ herbs into it. Swiftly, she closed the lid of the chest and swung her cloak around her shoulders, concealing her bag.
For a moment, she hesitated as she looked around the room and instantly knew it was a mistake. She couldn’t stop to contemplate or reminisce. There was no time and she couldn’t afford the luxury of regret for something that could never be.
All she could do was act. Only when her mission was complete would she allow herself to think of personal matters.
Of Tacitus.
***
Nimue had almost reached the prisoners’ quarters when disaster struck. Tacitus’ commander rounded a corner, caught sight of her, and began to march in her direction.
Panic gripped her. If he decided to drag her off she knew nobody would stop him—certainly not the officer by his side. Tacitus had assured her she was safe from his commander’s clutches. But Tacitus wasn’t here.
“Nimue.” He halted directly in front of her and although he left adequate space between them, his suffocating presence loomed over her. “I understand you’re on the way to visit the captives.”
The overwhelming urge to leap to her people’s defense burned through her, but she battled to douse it. Rising to the commander’s bait would do her no favors. She wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible, not create a scene.
“Charitable as well as beautiful,” the officer said, and it was only then she realized it was the same officer who’d spoken
to her the other day. Tacitus’ cousin.
“An admirable trait in one whose people have been conquered.”
Injustice spiked through her chest and she glared up at the commander, who was staring at her as if he possessed the power to penetrate her skull and read her true thoughts. Scathing words scorched her tongue and she struggled to keep them there and not escape her lips. The commander’s eyes narrowed slightly, seemingly well aware of her internal battle and the strangest conviction gripped her that he expected her to protest.
Despite the fact that by so doing she risked her life.
“I wonder that my esteemed cousin allows you to wander the garrison without protection.” The officer dismissed the seamstress’s presence with barely a glance. “I would never allow you to put yourself at such risk.”
The commander’s penetrating gaze finally slid from her face and lingered on the piles of clothes and jugs that she and the seamstress held. For one horrifying moment, Nimue had the icy certainty that he knew exactly what she planned to do.
“I doubt,” the commander said at last, “that the Celt is at any risk within this garrison, Tribune.”
How much longer did he intend to delay her? At any other time she would have simply stalked off, but she couldn’t risk angering him in case he decided to haul her off for some barbaric punishment.
Something behind her caught the commander’s attention and he beckoned. She refused to glance over her shoulder on principle. Not that it mattered, since within moments the Gaul, Gervas, who had informed her of her slave status, came into view.
The commander turned back to her. “You’ve picked your moment well, Nimue. The captives, including Caratacus’ queen and daughter, are being sold to the slave traders at midday. Thanks to you, they will now all be cleanly attired.”
Fury at his callous words merged with relief that she was not yet too late to save them all, and she barely registered the sharp glance the officer shot his commander. Finally satisfied by their bizarre exchange the commander indicated that she was free to go and without a word, she did.
Arianrhod surely used her blessings to smooth the path for Nimue. The legionary on guard, a different one from the previous day, could barely tear his gaze from her and accepted her offer of a drink without the slightest trace of suspicion.
“The commander and the tribune said you’d be coming by,” he said, ramrod straight but holding her cup in his hand. She offered him a smile that clearly befuddled his mind as he grinned back, seeing her as no potential threat whatsoever.
Only as he unlocked the door of the prisoners’ quarters did his comment fully penetrate. She knew that Tacitus had been going to warn the guard of her visit and she understood that he needed to inform his commander, but why would the commander also mention it to the legionary?
Just as she was about to enter the building, the Gaul whom the commander had hailed paused by the legionary’s side and looked at her. Heat flooded through her and she prayed desperately it wouldn’t spread to her face and declare her guilt for all to see.
Goddess, was he going to stand and watch her? She doubted that he’d fall for her false smile and didn’t even bother to try. But she couldn’t let him thwart her plans when they were so close to execution.
“Would you care for some herbal tea?”
He glanced at the jug, then at the legionary and then back at her. His expression gave nothing away and yet she knew that, unlike the Romans she’d encountered, he saw past her face and figure and pretty words.
“No.” His response was uncompromising. “I don’t drink while on duty.” With that he turned and marched onward, and she let out a relieved sigh.
“Miserable Gallian bastard,” the legionary said, his stance no longer quite as rigid. The seamstress sniffed, whether in agreement or disapproval Nimue couldn’t guess, and continued to sip her tea.
Once again Nimue entered the building. This time when the women approached there was far less hostility. “We didn’t expect to see you again,” the woman who had spoken to her the previous day said. “Did your Roman beat you for coming to see us?”
“No.” Nimue looked down at the jug she held so the woman couldn’t see the truth in her eyes. She would never understand how Nimue felt about her Roman. Nimue would never expect her to. But neither could she bear for Tacitus to be so unjustly accused. “He would never beat me. Not all Romans are the same.”
She’d despised Romans long before they’d invaded her homeland. How could she so easily dismiss years of ingrained contempt? But Tacitus was nothing like she had imagined her enemy to be. With him, at least, she would acknowledge that her sweeping prejudice against his race was unfair.
“Yes, they are,” the woman said and Nimue knew nothing would change her mind. Knew that it was not even her place to try to change the woman’s mind. All she had to do was ensure her safety.
“We don’t have much time.” She didn’t miss the way the woman’s eyes narrowed at her sudden change of subject. “Here, take these gowns and put them over your own.” She handed the clothes to a second woman who took them but didn’t appear to know what to then do with them. “The slave traders will be here soon. This is the only chance you have for freedom.”
“You’re rescuing us?” The first woman stared at her in disbelief. “We’ll never make it. Roman scum are everywhere.”
“You will make it.” From the corner of her eye she saw the others had started to pull on the clean gowns over their own. “The market isn’t far. It will be easy enough to mingle with the local populace. The important thing to remember is not to draw attention so don’t all move together in one group.”
“And then what?” asked one of the women, as she helped a young girl into a clean gown.
“Then we will return to the enclave of Caratacus where I’ll repair the sacred circle. When the Source of Annwyn conceals us from Roman eyes, there will be time to heal and gather resources.” She glanced over her shoulder, but the legionary was leaning against the open door, yawning widely, and showed no interest in what she was saying. “In moments the legionary will slide into unconsciousness. When he does you must make haste.” She gave brief instructions on how to reach the bustling market within the fortification’s walls. If they could get there undetected then their chance for escape was high. “Take this.” She handed the woman the jug, and explained the purpose of the contents. “Don’t wait for me,” she said. “I’ll follow with the Briton queen and her daughter and meet you at the sacred enclave.”
Satisfied that the woman would ensure her orders were carried out, Nimue checked on her victims. The seamstress had slumped to the ground and was snoring softly and the legionary, still upright against the wall, was no longer sensible to his surroundings. After ensuring the way was clear, she turned back and jerked her head at the woman who began the stealthy exodus.
Nimue slid her earring free and hoped the door to the queen’s prison was as simple to unlock as Tacitus’ casket. She curbed her impulse to run and instead strolled toward the building, shocked by the lack of security. It was especially surprising given the Romans’ military record and yet, when she considered it, their oversight to guard their prisoners adequately wasn’t surprising at all.
Who, after all, would try to rescue a dozen native women and children from the heart of their formidable fortification?
They would never suspect she would be so daring. It wasn’t as if she was a man.
She gripped her earring and slid it into the lock, and attempted to derive satisfaction from the notion that the Romans so underestimated the warriors of Cymru. But all she could see in her mind’s eye was the look on Tacitus’ face when he discovered what she’d done.
The lock gave way and after another quick glance over her shoulder, she opened the door.
“Do not be afraid,” she whispered as she stepped into the darkened room. And then the words lodged in her throat and her heart slammed against her ribs in horror as, instead of the queen facing her, it was the
commander.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Flee. The panicked command pounded in her head but within the space of a heartbeat, she discarded the notion. If she ran, she risked drawing attention to the women and children who, Goddess willing, would by now be mingling with the morning market crowds.
And even if she ran in the opposite direction, how far could she get in the middle of the enemy’s camp, with their commander on her trail?
“Nimue.” The commander’s voice was low as his intense gaze burned into her. “My instinct wasn’t wrong.”
Dagger-sharp terror ripped through her but she remained motionless and willed herself not to show by the slightest tremble how deeply she feared facing Roman torture.
He didn’t know her true plans. To him she was simply a weak woman in both mind and body. He couldn’t possibly suspect that she had opened the door in order to help the queen and her daughter escape.
Yet if all he imagined was that she intended to bring fresh clothes then why was he standing in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind his back, as if he had been specifically waiting for her?
Of course he had been waiting for her. And the true reason why he waited smashed into her with the force of a landslide.
It had nothing to do with him suspecting her of an ulterior motive.
She edged back a step, cursing the fact that she didn’t have her dagger. At least then she could inflict serious injury on him before he attempted to rape her. Yet even as that dreaded thought crossed her mind, discordance vibrated along her senses. For despite the way the commander’s presence dominated the small room he didn’t make any threatening gesture toward her.
Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps he hadn’t had the queen moved from this room merely to get Nimue alone. Perhaps, after all, there was a perfectly logical reason why he’d locked himself in and waited for her to…
Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Page 22
