Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3)

by Christina Phillips

  But his commander wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was riveted on Nimue, seemingly bewitched, and there was a sickly pallor to his skin.

  “And then they lashed her naked and broken body on a cross. Crucified her because she wouldn’t betray her people for your cowardly Emperor—”

  Tacitus dragged her forcibly back against his body and wrapped his hand over her mouth. She was shaking as if she had a fever, and his fury at her treachery seeped from his veins in sickened disgust.

  No wonder she hated Rome. No wonder she’d attempted to escape at the first opportunity. But he didn’t have time to comfort her, even if such a feat could be possible. He had to somehow placate his commander. Convince him Nimue was out of her mind, not in control of her tongue. Inspiration struck. He would say she had been drugged and couldn’t be held accountable for her actions.

  “Sir—”

  His commander looked at him and the rest of his words jolted from his mind. In the space of moments the older man had aged before Tacitus’ eyes, and a shudder inched along his spine. Was this some strange Druid magic of Nimue’s?

  “Caratacus’ queen and daughter are being sent to Rome tomorrow.” Despite his ashen appearance, his commander’s voice was the same as it had always been. “Ensure Nimue is kept under control, Tribune. Her safety cannot be guaranteed if you allow her free rein.”

  He’d already made that decision. Nimue would be confined to his quarters now and it had nothing to do with her safety and everything to do with…

  For a moment his thoughts halted, uncertain. Was it truly only his pride she had wounded?

  “Yes, sir.” At this moment nothing else mattered but getting Nimue away from his commander. If his superior officer suspected she was a Druid, he wouldn’t have allowed her to remain with Tacitus. They were too valuable; and after all information had been extracted from them they were publicly executed as a warning and reminder of the might of the Roman Empire.

  As he dragged an uncooperative Nimue from the building, the pit of his stomach churned at the thought of her being crucified. She stumbled against him and he released his restraining hold across her mouth. She hitched in a ragged breath, and the vulnerability of that small, broken sound stabbed through his heart.

  She was a Druid. It was his duty to report his suspicions. His loyalty to his Emperor, to Rome and his family honor dictated nothing less.

  He gripped her arm and marched her toward his quarters, avoiding the deserted slaves’ building. Nimue was a native of the most hated people of his Emperor. He knew it and he would deny the truth of her heritage with his dying breath.

  She pulled up suddenly and he rounded on her, rage at his conflicted loyalties pounding through his blood. But she wasn’t glaring at him, wasn’t trying to escape. Instead she merely swayed on her feet and her pale face and oddly blank eyes caused another wave of cursed protectiveness to smash through him.

  Was he destined to battle what was considered the norm for his society for the rest of his life? He’d always thought there could be nothing worse than the familial conflicts that plagued his conscience.

  He had been wrong.

  “Forgive me,” she said in an oddly dignified voice. “I am going to be ill.” Then she slipped from his loosened grasp, fell to her knees and was violently sick.

  ***

  For two days Tacitus had managed to avoid a conversation with Nimue. He left before she awoke in the morning and returned late at night after she’d gone to bed. Then he woke her, kissing her treacherous lips, invading her willing mouth and pussy until she writhed with orgasmic pleasure beneath him. She never turned away. Never pushed him back. She wanted his body as desperately as he wanted hers. But it was never enough. Because never a word passed between them.

  He couldn’t trust himself to speak to her. Couldn’t trust what she might confess in return. He hadn’t been able to confiscate her embroidered bag, despite the fact that she possessed it only proved, yet again, how she’d gone behind his back. But how could he take it from her when she had stood before him, silent, vulnerable, broken?

  He’d taken her collection of herbs though. And it had given him no pleasure to burn them but how could he trust her not to one night drug him with them?

  “There’s a storm coming.” His commander’s voice penetrated his tortured thoughts and he hauled himself back to the present. Despite the uproar when it was discovered the Cambrian slaves had escaped, his commander hadn’t demanded that Nimue be interrogated. The legionary on guard had been held fully responsible and the man’s honor hadn’t allowed him to attempt to shift the blame to a mere woman. A slave, no less.

  But it was strange that the commander apparently made no connection with Nimue. Tacitus still didn’t know how they had both ended up in the queen’s room.

  Nimue’s name was the last thing he intended to bring up with his commander. And he wasn’t speaking at all to Nimue.

  But it was slowly eating him alive.

  “Sir.” The reply was automatic. He had no idea whether a storm was brewing or not. As far as he could tell, it had been a perfectly normal summer for this primitive province. Chilly and unpredictable.

  They stood outside the commander’s quarters and the older man, hands clasped behind his back, stared up into the dusky twilight sky. Tacitus quickly looked away again. Since the confrontation with Nimue, his commander had been far less gregarious than usual. Blandus had passed comment on his uncle’s changed attitude just that afternoon and Tacitus had brushed it aside. But it confirmed one thing. His commander hadn’t confided anything about Nimue to his nephew.

  “Haven’t you noticed, Tacitus?” Still the commander stared into the sky apparently fascinated by the blackness. “There’s been no sign of the moon since we crushed Caratacus. The Celts’ gods do not rest easy.”

  Tacitus had an instant vision of the exquisite engravings on Nimue’s silver jewelry and the embroidery of her bag. They showed the passage of the moon. He knew she worshipped Arianrhod, the Celt goddess of the moon. Against his better judgment, he followed his commander’s gaze. The sky loomed, dark and ominous, without a single pinprick of distant light.

  “In time they too will succumb to the gods of Rome.” It was an automatic answer; one he didn’t fully believe in. How could he, when he favored the gods of Greece over the gods of his forefathers?

  The commander was silent for so long Tacitus thought the conversation over, and silent relief washed through him. He didn’t want to think about the Celtic gods or the Celtic priests and priestesses who communed with them. Yet it seemed everything reminded him of Nimue.

  “Will they?” The commander turned his brooding gaze to Tacitus. “Should they?”

  Unease prickled the outer edges of his mind. Was his commander uttering a rhetorical question?

  “Go back to your Celt.” It was a command and Tacitus stiffened, every sense on full alert. “Enjoy her while you can, Tacitus. And when the time comes, remember your pledge. Bring her to me and I’ll pay whatever you demand—for her manumission.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Once again, Nimue ate the eve’s meal by herself. It was served to her in a frosty silence but she couldn’t blame Tacitus’ servants for their attitude. Not after what she’d done to one of their own. The seamstress hadn’t come near her since that morn, two days ago.

  She pushed her half-eaten meal away. Tacitus had barely come near her since he’d dragged her away from his commander. My father. She still couldn’t think of him in that way without her stomach knotting and breath strangling her throat. In her heart she knew it wasn’t a coincidence. They had been destined to meet by the gods. But whose gods? Hers?

  Or his?

  She sat on the edge of Tacitus’ casket and attempted to regulate her breathing. She’d wondered how he’d react when he discovered her betrayal. She had never imagined witnessing it firsthand.

  The reality was far worse than anything her mind had conjured. He hadn’t yelled at her. Beaten or berated
her. If he had, she might have convinced herself that she didn’t love him. But if Tacitus had been the kind of man to whip or brutalize her, then she would never have fallen in love with him in the first place.

  Nimue had prayed, begged, that somehow she could see Tacitus again when her mission was over. And her wish had been granted. She had seen Tacitus again. And failed, with spectacular disgrace, in her pledge to save the Briton queen and her daughter from slavery.

  For two days, she’d wallowed in self-recrimination at her failure. For two days, she had reeled between shock and reluctant fascination at the discovery of her father. For two torturous days and nights, she had battled the hopeless realization of how deeply she’d fallen for her Roman captor.

  She couldn’t—wouldn’t—continue this way. She had no idea what Tacitus intended to do with her. When he took her in the dead of night, he never said a word, although her foolish heart imagined that his touch and his lips told her everything she secretly desired.

  He had taken from her the means to prevent conception and yet he always ensured he used his Roman condom. As if even now, when she knew how deeply he despised her, he still afforded her enough consideration to respect her wishes that she didn’t want to conceive his child.

  She brushed the tips of her fingertips across her belly. Arianrhod had turned her back on her, but her Moon Goddess had prevented her from taking the womb cleansing tea two morns ago for a reason.

  Despite all their precautions, she had conceived his babe. It had been foretold in her vision; blessed by Arianrhod. And although only days ago such an outcome would have devastated Nimue, now the prospect of having Tacitus’ child filled her with a maelstrom of primal love, protectiveness and an overwhelming sense of awe.

  Was this how her mother had felt when she knew she had conceived Nimue? Twenty-three summers ago the Romans had not yet invaded Britain, but Gaul had already succumbed to the Eagle. The Romans wouldn’t have been her mother’s deadly enemy the same way they were hers. But even so, they were foreign barbarians and the threat of the Legions crossing the narrow sea into Britain was always an acknowledged threat.

  Why hadn’t her mother told her Roman lover that she was expecting his babe? Could Nimue do that to Tacitus? Didn’t he deserve to know they had created a child together?

  She knew he did.

  Nimue straightened her spine. Even though she had failed to save Caratacus’ queen, she had saved a dozen of her people from a similar fate. No rumor had reached her that they had been recaptured. She could only hope they had reached the relative safety of the enclave.

  She’d spent enough time berating her failures. She had to re-strategize. Make alternate plans for escape.

  Not only for her unborn child, whom she would never allow to be born under the slur of slave. But because she had to return to the enclave and complete the circle so her people were protected.

  And the Romans destroyed?

  How dearly she had once wished to unravel the mystery of the powerful Source of Annwyn. To continue the work of the great High Druid, Aeron, in his plans to eliminate the enemy from her land. But she not only possessed the blood of her enemy. She had fallen in love with one too.

  She spread her fingers across her thighs and tried to calm her galloping thoughts. Was there a way to protect her people without decimating the Legion? Could Gwydion, Warrior Magician and god of Illusion be swayed in Arianrhod’s ultimate desire? Would he intervene with his sister goddess and grant Nimue a concession for returning the last shard of bluestone to the enclave, for conducting the sacred rituals required?

  The lamplight flickered, although no breeze stirred the air, and unnatural shadows lengthened across the far wall. Mesmerized, Nimue watched the shadows swirl into the unmistakable outline of a man—a god. A god whose eyes glowed like fire; a god who reached out his hand, palm up, acquiescing her request.

  The door swung open and the shadows vanished back into the dark corners. Nimue stared up at Tacitus as he stood in the doorway, his scarlet cloak billowing around him. Awe filled her at the power of the mighty god. He had not only condescended to save the one she loved from the coming destruction. He had reinforced the strength of his power by sending Tacitus to her now.

  ***

  Tacitus braced himself against the enchanting look Nimue cast his way. Her beautiful green eyes showed no trace of deception and, dressed in the manner of a Roman noblewoman, any man could be forgiven for thinking her a fragile creature in need of protection.

  She was in need of protection. But not because she was incapable of looking after herself. He glared at her, willed himself to see beyond her delicate features and aura of vulnerability to the Druid he knew her to be.

  Druids were bloodthirsty barbarians who sacrificed babes on the altars of their heathen gods. They incited fear and madness among their followers and were behind the uprisings against the Empire.

  But all he saw when he looked at Nimue was the woman who haunted his waking hours and beguiled his dreams with the aid of an infatuated Morpheus.

  He kicked the door shut. “Why?” The word tore from his throat, unbidden. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking.

  She stood and faced him, as regal as an empress or a barbaric foreign queen. He tried to imagine her wielding a dagger over a helpless child to appease her goddess—and couldn’t.

  “Would you do anything less for your people, Tacitus?”

  Why did she have to throw logic in his face? Why couldn’t she fall to her knees and weep with despair like another woman would, or beg for his forgiveness and tell him that she’d never had any intention of leaving him without saying a word?

  He ground his teeth at such fantasy. And bitterly acknowledged that if Nimue was such a woman, they wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.

  “What were you doing with the commander?” That overheard conversation had plagued his mind countless times, but he still couldn’t fathom why they had been in that room together or how they had been talking of Nimue’s mother. Most of all he couldn’t fathom why the commander hadn’t exposed Nimue’s heritage. It was inconceivable that he hadn’t made the connection between the crucifixion of a Celtic noblewoman and the likelihood that she’d also been a Druid.

  For a moment, he didn’t think she was going to answer him. Then she drew in a deep breath, as if coming to a decision. “He was waiting in there for me.”

  Tacitus had suspected as much, but if that was so, it pointed to the fact that the commander had somehow been aware of Nimue’s intentions. And that made no sense at all. Surely his commander didn’t want Nimue in his bed enough to compromise his integrity?

  The way I’m prepared to compromise mine?

  He wanted to grip her shoulders, shake her, demand to know why was he waiting for you? But he feared that she would tell him. Once the words were spoken aloud how could he continue to ignore the truth?

  Yet he knew that he would.

  “Tacitus.” She took a step toward him and he forced himself to remain as he was and not drag her into his arms. Why did he still find her so irresistible? His lust for her hadn’t eased. It increased every time he took her. Every time he thought of her. He wanted to despise her; discard and forget her and knew he never could.

  “What?” His voice was harsh but she didn’t flinch. She never flinched. His mind flashed back to the scene with his commander when Nimue had trembled violently in his arms. She’d witnessed the crucifixion of her mother. Had likely escaped the same fate by sheer good fortune. Why would she flinch when a hated Roman raised his voice to her?

  “What’s going to happen to us?”

  Her question threw him. She hadn’t asked what was going to happen to her, which he’d expected. But when did Nimue ever do or say what he expected of her?

  “Us?” Derision soaked the word but it was a derision aimed at his own despicable need to keep Nimue in his life. “There is no us, Nimue. What gave you that idea? You belong to me and that’s the end of it.”

/>   If only that was the end of it. Yet even now, after everything she’d done, the knowledge that in the eyes of Rome she was nothing more than his slave tore his guts.

  But even that faded into insignificance when he faced the bitter truth. If he wanted to keep her, that was how she would have to remain. Because she would never willingly stay with him as his concubine.

  The truth was stark, brutal and flayed his sense of honor. In the end, when it truly mattered, he was no better than his father.

  For a brief moment he thought he saw raw anguish in her eyes as if his dismissal of what they had between them genuinely wounded her. But what did they have between them?

  Nothing but lust and sex. The intimate touches, the laughing glances and stimulating banter they’d shared before her betrayal had gone. He despised the fact that he missed it all; that he craved to once again be shocked and challenged and enchanted by her unorthodox conversation.

  “No.” Her voice was soft but it wasn’t the voice of a woman cowed or beaten by circumstance. For that at least he could thank whichever gods were responsible. “It’s not the end of it, Tacitus. No matter how dearly you wish it could be.”

  Still she defied him. He tried to crush the admiration that snaked through him for her courage, and failed. Because she had always shown courage and it was one of the aspects about her that so ensnared him.

  Curse her Druid blood. He wanted to reclaim what they had once shared, but it was impossible. If he gave her the slightest taste of freedom, she would vanish like mist in the morning.

  “I wish for nothing more than you learn your place, Nimue.” Rage and despair at where they now stood pounded through his blood, thundered through his mind. No other woman had ever weaved such a mystical spell around him. Her heritage meant death but he didn’t care about her heritage. He wanted her. And he wanted her to choose to stay with him because she couldn’t stand the thought of existing without him.

  But the only way to make her stay was to keep her enslaved.

  How low he had sunk in so short a time. All his life he’d prided himself on denying his father’s way of life. Tacitus didn’t buy slaves for sexual gratification. The prospect revolted him. Yet he stood before Nimue and couldn’t stomach the idea of letting her go.