Tainted (The Druid Chronicles Book 4)

by Christina Phillips

  Disbelief surged into rage. It scarcely even registered that the man was Roman. All that thundered through Gawain’s mind was her husband had murdered his own child, simply to hurt his wife.

  “It’s as well he’s in Rome. If I ever came across him I’d run him through with his own sword.”

  “That notion crossed my mind more than once.” He felt the tension seep from Antonia as her fingers relaxed their death grip around his. “Had I possessed the strength that night I would have cut his throat with a fibula if nothing else had come to hand.”

  Again the ethereal touch of his ancestors raised the hairs on his arms. Something was infinitesimally out of balance, although he couldn’t fathom what. Antonia’s heated fury of just moments ago had cooled and while he was relieved his thoughtlessness hadn’t caused her to tumble into hysteria, her current state of calm was…unnerving.

  She had just confided that her husband had killed their newborn daughter. Admittedly, he had no idea how long ago it had happened although it couldn’t be that long, given her age and the length of time she’d been married. But even so, her attitude baffled him. Was it because the only way she could get through each day was to bury the pain so deeply that she could pretend it had never happened?

  It seemed logical. But he couldn’t shift the feeling that something else had happened that night, something significant that she hadn’t told him.

  He could think of nothing to say that didn’t involve deadly force against her former husband, and so he remained silent. But it was a healing silence as the tension that had held Antonia in its merciless grip faded and she hugged his hand against her breast.

  “I vowed I would never conceive another child.” Her voice was so low he scarcely caught her words. He wondered if she even meant for him to hear. He buried his face in her silken hair and closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do to ease the pain she’d suffered. How he wished there was.

  It was late. Every moment he stayed increased the chance of him being caught. But the thought of leaving her bed held no appeal.

  Just a little longer. There would be no harm in that.

  “Gawain.” Her whisper penetrated his thoughts and he brushed a kiss across her brow.

  “What is it?”

  Her sleepy gaze caught his. “I know it’s impossible for you to stay all night but would you mind—could you stay with me for just a short while? Until I go to sleep?”

  “Yes.” His response appeared to both surprise and delight her, if the look on her face was anything to go by. She bestowed a luminous smile at him, sighed and then snuggled against him, as though that was the most natural thing in the world for her to do.

  Propped up on his elbow he watched as her breathing became regular and her muscles fully relaxed. With her hair tangled over her shoulders and spread across her pillows she looked untroubled; untouched by the harsh realities of life.

  How deceptive appearances could be.

  No wonder she didn’t miss life in Rome, when so much tragedy had befallen her there. Was it really her fate to return, as the wife of the praetor?

  She would never return to Rome if he had anything to do with it.

  The thought filled his mind, and it didn’t thunder with heated fury, but chilled his blood with iced conviction. Antonia deserved more than to become the chattel of another arrogant Roman, but what was the alternative? What could he offer her? A life on the run with a displaced Druid, a life filled with lies when he’d have to keep his true nature a secret from her?

  What was he thinking? Antonia would never—could never—share his life, even if he lost his mind and asked her to.

  No woman could share his life. There was no room for a woman in his future. If Rhys remained adamant about not inciting the other Druids to rebellion then when Carys left Camulodunon so would he.

  He’d travel north, beyond the land of the treacherous Brigantes, into the territories of the Picts. They, at least, still defied the insidious spread of the cursed Eagle.

  But instead of anticipation flooding his blood at the prospect, an odd hollowness gnawed in his gut. It was the right thing to do. The only way forward for a warrior who no longer lived in his homeland. Why then did it feel so wrong?

  ***

  Perhaps, in spite of his best intentions, he fell asleep because from the depths of black he jerked awake, heart pounding. For a moment, he had no idea where he was, until he realized it was Antonia in his arms. Antonia whose breath came in uneven gasps, whose body trembled and whose fingernails dug into his forearm in unnamed terror.

  “Antonia.” He brushed her hair back from her sweaty face. She was in the grip of a nightmare and unintelligible words spilled from her lips. He leaned closer and brushed a kiss across her mouth. “Sweet Antonia, wake up. You’re safe. I’m with you.”

  She went rigid and her eyelids sprung open. He began to smile in reassurance until he realized that she was still asleep. An eerie shudder inched along his spine as her fathomless eyes bored into him. And then she spoke.

  “Embrace your destiny. Bring them home to me.”

  Her words were clear, commanding, directed at him. But it was none of these things, or even the way she continued to stare, unseeing, that caused his stomach to clench and chest contract.

  It was because Antonia spoke in the sacred language of the gods that only Druids understood.

  Chapter Twenty

  Late the following morning, as Gawain made his way over to the main villa, Antonia’s words echoed in his mind. She’d woken up soon afterward, and had been so distressed at the thought he’d witnessed her having a nightmare that he hadn’t told her she had also spoken aloud.

  What could he say in any case? She was obviously merely a conduit his gods had used in order to get his attention. He wouldn’t upset her further by telling her such a thing. Especially when he had no idea how to answer the inevitable questions she would ask him.

  Why? And how? She was a Roman, not a Celt. But she was a Roman he cared for and like it or not, the tactic had worked.

  His gods had his attention. Curse them all, it was not he who had turned his back on them in the first place. Could he be blamed for his loss of faith after the way Lugus had vanished the moment Gawain had left the Isle of Mon?

  But unless he wanted to risk Antonia suffering from more nightly visitations from gods that were not of her culture, he’d have to swallow his anger at their manipulative ways and attempt yet again to reconnect with Lugus.

  Before dawn had broken, he’d left Antonia in the care of Elpis and although he and Antonia had made arrangements to meet tomorrow it had still been a wrench leaving her. She’d looked so lost and vulnerable, sitting on her bed, that he’d battled the urge to scoop her into his arms and take her with him.

  Carys had been right to warn him from pursuing Antonia. He’d become involved without meaning to, and what had started out as merely another erotic game was now something far more deadly.

  Not only to himself. Antonia would suffer too when this dangerous liaison finally ended.

  A side door to the villa opened and Branwen, a girl Carys had brought with her from Cymru, hurried toward him. “Gawain, Carys asks you to come quickly.”

  In Cymru, Branwen would never have spoken of Carys, a princess with the blood of the gods in her veins, as though they were equals. But many things had changed since the invasion.

  He followed Branwen into the villa and she nodded her head toward the atrium before she vanished in the opposite direction. Frowning, he entered the atrium and instinctively went for his dagger at the crowd that greeted him.

  But only for a fleeting moment. Although he’d never expected to see them in Camulodunon, these people were not strangers. He strode forward, where Carys held the hand of her mother as though she would never let her go. He bowed his head in a gesture of respect. “My queen.”

  “Yes, Gawain,” Nia said, a dry note in her voice. “I am here.”

  “Cerridwen brought them safely to us.” C
arys’ voice shook and tears glittered in her eyes as she once again gazed at her mother.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “What happened?”

  Nia sighed heavily. “Within days of you leaving Mon, the gods claimed Altair as he ascended into trance. It was seen by many as a sign that his adamant refusal to leave the Isle was…flawed.”

  Altair, the revered Elder who had been most vocal in his opinions and the one whose word held great sway with their people, continued his journey. And with his passing through the veil to the Otherworld he had allowed Nia and the other Druids who were of like mind to finally leave the Isle of Mon.

  It was hardly the mass exodus that Nia had wanted. But perhaps she had finally realized that many of the Druids would never leave the sacred sanctuary, no matter what signs they were given.

  Gawain had no idea what his queen planned on doing once Carys left for Rome. Would they all journey north? At least this way he would be among his own people in the land of the Picts.

  But that was a discussion for another time. Carys would no doubt want time alone with her mother and going by the shadows cast by the sun he was late for a meeting with Rhys.

  He swept his gaze around the dozen or so Druids who had accompanied their queen, and they exchanged silent greeting. Then he returned his attention to Nia.

  “By your leave. I will see you later.”

  “No.” Still holding Carys’ hand, Nia took one step toward him. “You’ll remain here, Gawain. There are things to discuss.”

  “But my queen—”

  “It was not a request.”

  He stared at her, and unease trickled along his spine. “I’m meeting someone.”

  Nia said nothing for a moment, but tension crackled in the air. Then she drew in a deep breath. “No, you’re not, Gawain. You are not to leave here until the eighth hour has passed.”

  ***

  Antonia couldn’t throw off the sense of impending disaster that hugged her like an unwanted blanket of fog. She’d gone to the forum in the hope the change of scene would help, but if anything, the bustling crowds and numerous scents and odors from stalls and livestock only increased her disquiet.

  It was humiliating enough that Gawain had witnessed her foolish nightmare two nights ago. But she had the unshakable certainty that he’d also witnessed her speaking in the tongue of Juno.

  Under normal circumstances that wouldn’t matter. A visitation from a mighty goddess, even a goddess he didn’t personally worship, was worthy of respect. But they weren’t normal, because not only could she never remember what had transpired in her visions, nobody could understand the words she uttered while unconscious.

  If Gawain had witnessed that, he would think her weak-minded. But he’d said nothing about her muttering in her sleep and she’d been too mortified to ask.

  It was her own fault for asking him to stay with her while she fell asleep. But it had been almost a week since Juno had come to her, and the possibility she would again hadn’t even crossed Antonia’s mind.

  She wouldn’t make that mistake again. But oh, how wonderful it had been to close her eyes with Gawain’s arms around her.

  And how wonderful and strangely liberating it had been to tell him of Cassia. It was something she’d never imagined telling him, and yet the words had spilled from her and as they had, a great weight had lifted from her soul.

  He might not know that her precious child was still alive. But at least he knew she had been born, and that she’d been dearly loved. How close she had been to telling him the whole truth of that night. How she longed to tell him the truth. His compassion had been as genuine for her beloved daughters, as well as her sons, and for that alone, he would forever have a place in her heart. Perhaps, after Cassia arrived in Britannia, she and Gawain might still be able to see each other. He could meet Cassia. Perhaps, one day in the far future, she might even be able to tell him how she had defied Scipio’s cruel edict.

  “Domina.” Elpis clutched her and pulled her from the path of a suddenly riotous crowd. What had happened? What had she missed while she’d been daydreaming of an impossible future that included both Cassia and Gawain?

  She grabbed a young boy as he dashed by. “What is it?”

  He twisted in her grasp, caught sight of her and with great reluctance stopped trying to escape. “Crucifixion. Out on the road.”

  Her fingers slackened and he took immediate advantage to disappear in the throng. Antonia turned and stared at Elpis, her heart thudding high in her breast making it hard to breathe, hard to think clearly. The boy had spoken in his native tongue, but she understood enough to know exactly what he’d said.

  She had no idea why panic gripped her heart or why her knees had the terrible urge to buckle. It made no sense that her stomach churned and skeletal fingers scraped over her arms.

  It wasn’t Gawain who was being crucified. The praetor, for all his faults, was an honorable man and wouldn’t kill another because of something as trivial as a perceived threat to the affections of a woman he was interested in.

  She knew this. Yet the horrifying vision of Gawain, bloodied and tortured, blinded her good sense.

  “Domina, no.” Elpis’ urgent voice and hand on her arm caused her to pause and glance over her shoulder. “We should return home. It’s not safe for you on the road.”

  “I have to see.” She began to run, holding up her gown so she wouldn’t trip over the material, and knew that Elpis was by her side. She followed the milling crowd through the streets, toward the triumphal arch that had been constructed to celebrate the Emperor Claudius’ victorious campaign.

  Legionaries were everywhere. Trying to push back the crowd; trying to bring order as they finished their grisly task. Just beyond the arch, by the side of the road, a roughly hewn cross had been erected. Even from this distance she could see the naked man lashed to the wood wasn’t Gawain.

  Thank the gods. She stood by the arch, panting, her hand pressed against her breast. Muted whispers rippled through the gathered people and a subdued sense of unease permeated the relief pounding through her blood.

  Druid.

  There were Druids in Camulodunum. And, like he said he would, the praetor was hunting them down.

  Now she was no longer sick with terror that it was Gawain enduring such a torturous death, a resigned sense of disgust and regret flooded her veins. Of course Druids had to die. They were a cruel, vindictive race that sacrificed babies on the altars of their gods. She had learned all this as a small child at her father’s knee, and her years in Rome had only strengthened the knowledge that Druids had to be wiped from every corner of the empire.

  But she hated crucifixions. No matter how many she had inadvertently witnessed, it had never served to change her mind. It was a barbaric death and surely even Druids deserved some dignity even if they were incapable of offering such to their own wretched victims.

  She reached out to Elpis, who took her hand. But just before she turned away to return to the litter that would take her home, something tugged in a buried recess of her mind.

  It meant nothing. She tried to ignore it but despite her best intentions she once again looked at the man on the cross. Really looked at him.

  And recognized his face.

  He was the huge man dressed in peasant clothing she had seen in the forum. The man Gawain had passed a silent message with.

  It was a coincidence. Nothing more. Gawain didn’t know this man. And even if he did, it didn’t follow that Gawain was aware the other man was a Druid.

  She barely felt Elpis gently tug on her hand as another jumbled thought surfaced. Gawain had spoken of the woman he’d once loved. How she had warned him that treachery awaited in the land of the Brigantes.

  When Gawain had admitted he had once loved another, she’d been too foolishly wounded to understand the significance of his words. It had been more than a simple wish for him to remain safe. Gawain had been specific. She had saved his life with her warning.

  Had it
been a warning direct from their gods? Was the woman he had loved a Celtic priestess?

  A Druid?

  Gawain said she was a warrior. But everyone knew Druids were fierce, bloodthirsty savages who took pleasure in leading their people into battle. Yet she couldn’t believe that Gawain had loved a bloodthirsty savage. A brave, noble warrior—yes, that she could understand, no matter how much it hurt her heart to admit. Gawain deserved a woman like that by his side, one who could match his strength, one who shared his heritage and could face his future.

  Shared his heritage.

  The words thundered in her brain.

  No. She wouldn’t believe it. Gawain was not a Druid. He was kin to Carys, and Carys had led the legions to the mad Druid who would have destroyed them all. She wouldn’t have done that if she were related to a Druid.

  But Gawain and Carys were not blood kin.

  “Domina, we should leave.” Elpis’ anxious whisper pierced her mind and she stared at the other woman, but all she saw was Gawain’s face as he told her treachery awaited him in the land of the Brigantes.

  During her last year in Rome, there had been great celebrations when the Briton king, Caratacus, had been captured and paraded through the city in chains. He had been betrayed by the queen of the Brigantes and all the Druids who had fought with him had been slain.

  Coincidence. But no matter how she clung onto that answer it felt hollow, and threads of panic weaved through her breast.

  Her suspicions were insane. Gawain was nothing like any evil Druid she had imagined. Just because he might have known the man being crucified, had once loved a woman who could foresee danger and had been betrayed by those who had turned on Caratacus didn’t mean he belonged to the elite ruling class of Celts who, by all accounts, could even out-rank their kings.