She made no move toward him, simply stood on the rammed earth floor, looking as out of place in the dingy surroundings as a displaced moon goddess. The only light came from the smoke hole in the roof and from where parts of the thatch had disintegrated over time and yet Antonia seemed to radiate an ethereal glow of her own.
His head must have been hit harder than he realized to imagine such fanciful notions. But the possibility didn’t stop him from enjoying the way her gown draped over her shoulders and clung to her curves. He ached to reach out and cradle her breasts, rub his thumbs over her responsive nipples and once again hear her breathy gasps as desire consumed her.
He shifted, trying to ease the pleasurable discomfort that throbbed between his thighs. He would have her. But he wouldn’t grab her like a starving man with no thought but to slake his hunger.
“You should be resting.” She stepped toward him, one hand outstretched as though she intended to push him back down onto the pallet. The thought made him grin.
“I’ve rested enough.”
She didn’t return his smile. “You’re in pain.” She sounded distraught although the only outward sign of her evident distress was her raised hand and the oddly intense expression in her eyes.
He threaded his fingers through hers and tugged her toward him. Surprisingly, he detected a slight resistance but that made no sense. Why would she be here if she didn’t want to be in his arms?
“I’m in pain because it’s been too long since I felt the silk of your skin beneath my body.” Just saying the words aloud caused his muscles to tense in anticipation. Her tempting scent of woodland flowers drifted in the air, innocence and seduction combined in an irresistible bouquet. “You torture me with your icy Roman reserve when I know it’s nothing but a façade. When I know I’m the only man you allow to stir your hidden passions.”
Her eyes glittered and for a brief, uneasy moment, he thought she was going to cry. But then she reached out with her free hand and gently trailed her fingers along his jaw.
“Your face.” She choked on the words and curled her fingers into a fist. He covered her hand with his, pressing her knuckles against the damaged skin that so distressed her.
“I have no injuries that won’t heal, Antonia.”
“You could have been killed.” Her voice was low but vibrated with fear and a dark suspicion gnawed through his gut. Did she know who was behind the attack? Or did she merely suspect?
His male pride didn’t want her to know. The fight might not have been a fair one between him and the Roman but nevertheless, he was the one who had been bloodied, not the praetor. “It would take more than two desperate drunks to kill me.”
“Please. Promise me you’ll take more care, Gawain.” Her ice-blue eyes beseeched him in a way they never had before, and his dark humor drained away. In its place, a raw protectiveness blazed through him. For her he would curb his recently acquired inclination to seek out danger at every opportunity.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Before the Romans had invaded Cymru the only dangers he’d faced were those any warrior would. And now, because of another Roman, he would temper his thirst for vengeance. It was not the right time, and the peoples of Camulodunon were not in the right frame of mind. He wouldn’t risk his life, wouldn’t risk losing Antonia, in attempting to stir apathetic Britons to revolt.
An odd sense of peace weaved through his chest, as though a great weight had lifted from his heart. Antonia did this to him. Centered him. Gave him the clarity of mind that was so essential for a warrior. A clarity that, since he’d left his homeland, he’d found so hard to recapture.
He smiled down at her, his unlikely Roman savior. “I promise.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Antonia knew she should pull away from Gawain’s touch. She hadn’t meant for them to touch. Yet all along, she’d known it was inevitable that they would.
How could she not touch him when every inch of her skin, every breath she took and every despairing beat of her heart called for him? When her body craved to feel his strong arms around her, when she wanted nothing more than to bury her face in his shoulder and pretend the world outside this primitive dwelling didn’t exist?
Yet she remained where she was. Trapped by the hunger in his eyes, the raw need that pulsed between them and the feel of his scarred fingers interlocking with hers. But even as desire coiled between her thighs, crimson terror raked through her breast.
There was no doubt in her mind who was behind Gawain’s attack. It was a warning. For them both. If she hadn’t already made the decision not to tell Gawain of the praetor’s threat, seeing Gawain’s injuries would have been enough to keep her mouth shut forever.
He would bow to no Roman. He would confront the praetor. And Gawain would die.
A shudder racked her and her fist shifted along his jaw. His stubble grazed her knuckles and her skin tingled at the abrasive contact. The fierce desire to rub his jaw across her face, over her breasts and belly and between her thighs pounded through her. She wanted him to brand her with his rough day-old beard, to mar her flesh the way she had inadvertently marred him.
She wanted to stay with him forever. He and Cassia were all she wanted. It was a fantasy, had always been a dream, but lately she’d harbored the secret hope their liaison might continue indefinitely, regardless of outside forces.
The torn flesh on his aristocratic cheekbone and the myriad bruising across his face and naked chest caused every fragile dream to crumble. And she acknowledged the harsh truth.
She had come here today to end their affair. But buried deep in her heart, where she hardly dared to venture, the tiniest of hope had continued to flicker. The hope they could somehow evade the praetor’s power that encompassed her world like a vindictive spider’s web.
But the time for foolish delusions was over. And a delusion was all this affair had ever been. She was of Rome through the blood of her mother, and Rome did not relinquish her captives so easily.
Slowly she pulled free of Gawain’s possessive grip. He didn’t attempt to stop her and instead of severing contact as quickly as possible she lingered, savoring the way their fingers caressed. Until this moment, she had never realized how sensitive her fingertips were, how her flesh tingled at the languorous touch.
She focused on their hands as she sculpted each of his fingers and then laid her palm flat against his. His size dwarfed her. He could crush her in the blink of an eye and yet for all his size, for all that she knew, in her heart, that he was a Druid, she trusted him with her life.
“I won’t break, Antonia.” There was a thread of amusement in his voice as he dragged her fist to his lips. “Like you, I’m stronger than I appear.”
She managed to smile as he nibbled kisses across her clenched knuckles. His intense gaze never left her face. “If that were true, you would belong on Olympus and not here among us mere mortals.”
His eyes crinkled. He clearly wasn’t offended that she compared him to her gods and not his own. “You flatter me outrageously, my lady. What are you after? A few mind-shattering orgasms? I assure you that I intend to give you them regardless of your pretty words.”
She didn’t want to think of the orgasms she’d shared with Gawain. Yet they sparkled in her mind like the stars at night, causing quivers of primal need to grip her whenever she recalled them.
How had she ever imagined that she would be able to let him go with barely a shrug at the end of their liaison? How had she imagined that only the memory of their times together would be enough to sustain her throughout the rest of her life?
How could she tell him that it was over, and walk away without taking one more glorious, heartbreaking memory with her?
She circled her forefinger over his palm, spiraling downward toward his wrist. She manacled him with her hand, but her hand was too small to enchain him. Instead she brushed the pad of her thumb across his pulse, secretly enthralled by the unexpected silkiness of his skin there.
A glimpse of masc
uline vulnerability. And instantly her pleasure died. She didn’t want Gawain to be vulnerable in any way. And the only way to ensure he remained the invincible warrior she cherished in her mind was if she left him.
“Antonia.” His voice had lost its bantering tone. He cradled her face and gazed into her eyes as though she was the only woman in the world. Her heart would shatter irrevocably if she didn’t leave right now. But why was she trying to blind herself to the truth? Her heart had already shattered.
He sighed and his thumbs caressed her cheeks in a gesture so tender she wanted to weep. “Don’t be afraid. I’ve given you my word. I won’t seek retribution.”
He could read her mind, her fears, too easily. They both knew who was behind this attack. And neither would say the name aloud. As though, by acknowledging it, it would force them to face the harsh truth that the praetor had won.
She couldn’t let Gawain believe that. Because, no matter what he had promised her, if he believed she went to the praetor against her will, his pride would demand justice.
He would die. His blood would be on her hands. She gripped his wrists, intending to pull free of his embrace, but it was impossible.
This was their last time together. Tonight her betrothal to Seneca would be made public. She would never again enjoy the freedom she had experienced since arriving in Britannia.
She was under no delusion. She would never see Gawain again, either.
“I know.” She refused to allow her voice to crack and somehow managed to give him a smile. He would never guess that she could read his mind in this matter as easily as he could read hers. “You’re the most honorable man I’ve ever met, Gawain.”
The words came straight from her heart. She prayed he would always remember them, when he remembered her.
For a moment his eyes clouded, as though her words had inadvertently wounded him. He didn’t say anything for several heartbeats, and she thought the moment had passed. Then his fingers tensed against her face.
“My honor is tainted, Antonia.” The words were low, as though he spoke against his better judgment. “A warrior is judged by his victories.” Bitterness tinged his voice but he didn’t look at her with condemnation.
And then she knew. He wasn’t referring to the invasion of his homeland. He spoke of the capture of Caratacus in the land of the Brigantes.
Her heart squeezed with empathic pain. He was a Druid and had been charged to protect the Briton king. He’d escaped the fate of his fellow warriors only because his gods had forewarned him.
Without honor, a warrior was nothing. Roman, Celt or Druid. Was there really that much difference between them?
“A warrior is judged by his actions.” She slid her hands from his wrists, over his forearms and gripped his powerful biceps. “He cannot be held responsible for the betrayal of those he thought his allies.”
“Yet still, I was the only one who escaped.” There was no mistaking the self-contempt in his voice and his hands dropped to her shoulders. “The one who witnessed the defeat of Britain’s last hope.”
It was true. After Caracatus’ capture, Britain had accepted the might of the Eagle. Cambria still rebelled, and a treacherous corner of her heart rejoiced in the knowledge that Gawain’s homeland continued to cling onto their tenuous freedom.
But she couldn’t bear to see the recrimination in Gawain’s eyes. Perhaps her words would mean nothing to him. But perhaps they would help ease the guilt that she could now see fueled his every action.
“Caratacus gave a mighty speech in Rome, Gawain. The emperor was so impressed, he pardoned Caratacus and his queen and family. They weren’t executed or enslaved. They are…admired.”
She saw the question in his eyes even as relief skated across his features. And then she remembered. He’d never mentioned who had been betrayed. He was clearly surprised she’d managed to put the pieces together.
“I’m not entirely ignorant of politics.” She had been educated in politics since she was a child and it was just as well. Patrician women might give the impression of being empty-headed vessels in thrall to their husbands. But a noblewoman who had no concept of the politics of Rome was rare indeed.
It all came down to survival.
“You’re not ignorant at all, Antonia.” There was an oddly wary note in his voice. “It never occurred to me Caratacus would be freed. I assumed he’d been executed with great triumphal ceremony.”
As the Druids who had accompanied Caratacus to the land of the Brigantes had been executed. And she realized Gawain wasn’t shocked that she had known he’d been charged to protect Caratacus. It was because he feared she might jump to the conclusion that Gawain was also a Druid.
Did he think she would turn her back on him? Did he imagine she would betray him, as was her duty as a Roman?
It hurt to know he didn’t trust her enough to share such an important aspect of his life with her. But at the same time, she understood his reasons. No matter what they had shared over the last two weeks, she was still a Roman. And only the day before she’d displayed her prejudiced ignorance before him by repeating what her father and others had told her. Why should he confide in her, when he believed she thought Druids murdered babies and drank their blood?
“The emperor appreciates a stirring speech.” She wouldn’t let her wounded heart taint her memories of the time she had spent with Gawain. Just because she’d told him her secrets didn’t mean he had to tell her his. “Perhaps if people talked more to each other there would be less bloodshed.”
He laughed, and while she loved the sound of his laughter and the fact she amused him even at a time like this, a part of her balked. Her words had not been said in jest. Why could a warrior see no option but to fight?
What other life was there for a warrior?
“You should be a politician.” He tugged on one of her ringlets. “But since Rome doesn’t acknowledge women in their precious Senate perhaps you should consider using your powers of persuasion in a Celtic court.”
She stared at him. Was he mocking her? Or was he serious? Sometimes it was hard to tell when Gawain made a passing comment about women, because his views were so different from those of Roman men. She mirrored his actions and twined a length of his hair around her finger. How she would miss playing with his hair. But not as much as she would miss their strange, exhilarating conversations.
“I’m sure your Celtic chieftains would be only too eager to take advice from a woman with the blood of Rome in her veins.”
“You might be surprised.” He smiled down at her, a smile filled with warmth and laughter and something else. Something so infinitely tender it made her heart ache and chest constrict.
No man had ever looked at her in such a way. But she had dreamed of this since she was a young girl. And now, when she had found what she had always yearned for, it was with the knowledge that she could never claim his love.
When this day was over, it wouldn’t simply be Gawain’s pride she injured. Had she really thought it would be? His warrior pride was one thing. But now she knew, in her heart, that he loved her, it was more important than ever that he never discover the depth of her own love.
Let him believe she’d merely used him as a diverting dalliance. At least then he would let her go without swearing vengeance on the praetor.
She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his chest, so he could no longer look into her eyes and guess the truth.
“I would be astonished.” Her voice was husky and she wrapped her arms around him, a gentle hug, mindful of his bruised body. His skin was warm, his muscles taut. His evocative scent of wild forests invaded her senses and desire pooled between her thighs. Juno, how can I bear to walk away from him?
“I look forward to astonishing you on a regular basis, my lady.” Amusement vibrated through every word, as he continued to toy with her hair as if her ringlets bewitched him.
She closed her eyes, but the impossible vision of sharing a life together shimmered in the darkness. He
was a Druid. A leader. A fearless warrior. Among his own people, she knew his word would carry great weight. Was he also a chieftain? Had he once presided over a Celtic court of his own?
There were so many things she wanted to ask him. The questions remained locked in her heart. Already she knew too much about him. If she learned any more she feared she might never recover from losing him.
And she had to get over him. For the sake of her beloved Cassia.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Antonia pressed her cheek against Gawain’s chest and trailed the tips of her fingers along his back. His heart thudded against her face, strong and reassuring. His hand cradled the back of her head, an endearingly possessive gesture and involuntarily her fingers dug into his hips.
He groaned and she instantly pulled back, guilt eating through her.
“I’m sorry.” Her fingers fluttered over his naked hips, where his braccae had slipped revealing not simply his irresistible body but also more livid bruising. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Antonia.” His exotic accent caressed each syllable of her name and she forgot about not looking him in the eyes again. “You didn’t hurt me. It’s impossible for you to hurt me.” He paused, and his beautiful mouth curved into a teasing smile. “Unless you stop touching me.”
She flattened her palms over his bronzed chest, and tried to ignore the evidence of his recent attack. In the years to come, she wanted to remember him as he truly was, not recall the superficial injuries the praetor had inflicted as a demonstration of his power.
“I cannot stay long.” She’d brought another slave woman with her, as Elpis once again hadn’t offered to accompany her. And while the slave was loyal, Antonia hadn’t confided the real reason she had journeyed to the tribune’s villa.
For a brief goodbye to the man who held her heart. How foolish to imagine anything with Gawain could be brief. But while she longed to stay in his arms for the rest of the day and night, her time was short.
Tainted (The Druid Chronicles Book 4) Page 21
