“Yes.”
She didn’t answer, but the tip of her tongue teased her upper lip in a deliberately seductive gesture, as if daring him to take what she refused to verbally offer. He lowered his head. She wouldn’t resist. No matter how she despised him, she still craved their joining.
He slid his hand from her wet globe, trailed over her ribs and across her taut stomach. Her long eyelashes flickered, her breath gusted. Silken skin tantalized his palm, fired his blood and thundered through his heart.
Soon, his self-imposed celibacy would incinerate beneath the desire that scorched between them. A celibacy he’d never willingly embraced yet one that had become part of his existence, as integral as the nightmares that plagued his sleep and the visions that haunted his waking hours.
A discordant thud against the door jarred his brain and shuddered through his bones, disconnecting the intoxicating moment. Morwyn opened her lust-glazed eyes and stared up at him in unfocused bemusement.
His hand fisted in her hair and then slowly he relaxed his fingers and allowed her luxuriant tresses to slide free over the outside of the tub. With equal reluctance he dragged his hand from the water, over her slick body, the curve of her breast, the hard nub of her nipple. For a moment he gripped the edge of the tub, grasping at his fractured concentration, before sucking in a pained breath and snatching the cloth that lay on the floor.
“Cover yourself.” His voice was harsh. He had no intention of allowing any other to see her naked. “Stand up.” But gods, he had every intention of seeing her so himself.
Her eyes narrowed, as if she contemplated disobeying. “Why should I?”
Contemplation be cursed. She would never obey him voluntarily. Once again he leaned over her and offered her a mirthless smile as frustration seared his arteries and fried his reflexes.
“Because I doubt you want those louse-ridden boys to see you as a mortal Venus.”
Her frown intensified. “Heathen Roman goddess. You insult me.” But she curled her fingers around the edge of the tub and heaved herself up with obvious discomfort, as if her muscles protested at such unwelcome exertion.
She wasn’t anything like the deity the Romans worshipped. With her delectable rounded arse, sculpted waist and finely toned arms, she was nothing less than the visage of the Maiden Morrigan, the great goddess he had worshipped in his youth.
Slowly she turned to face him and his mouth dried. Water slid from her shoulders, traced over her breasts and dripped from the dark tips of her nipples. But she made no move toward him, no sign she was vexed by this untimely interruption.
Perhaps she wasn’t.
The notion scraped across raw nerves and he thrust the cloth at her before he abandoned the last shredded remnants of control and fucked her regardless. And lost, forever, the remaining fragment of the man he truly was.
He marched to the door, legs as stiff as his cock and, with a glance to ensure Morwyn had covered herself, jerked it open.
The innkeeper’s wife, laden with platters, avoided his glare and he stepped aside so she could enter. The two boys followed her, their hot eyes fixed upon Morwyn with blatant relish. Bren clenched his fists. They scarcely reached his shoulder and yet the way they looked at her enraged him as if they were grown men leering at a helpless girl.
Standing in the center of the tub, Morwyn looked nothing like a helpless girl and every cursed Roman inch a confident Celtic woman, comfortable with the undoubted effect she had on impressionable young males.
Only with difficulty did Bren refrain from slamming the door so it shattered in its frame. Instead he watched the woman and boys deposit their offerings on top of the chest before making their way back to him.
Except one of the boys hovered, clearly besotted by the wet vision before him.
“Do you need any help, mistress?”
“Daric! Get over here.” Horror laced the woman’s tone, as if she expected Bren to behead the boy for such audacity.
“No, thank you.” Morwyn sounded like a queen addressing one of her loyal subjects and the smile she bestowed on the lad knotted Bren’s guts, although he wasn’t sure why. “The Gaul can attend to my needs.”
She made him sound like her slave. An odd thread of amusement slithered through him at the thought and again he wondered who she truly was. Somehow he couldn’t envisage her as a trader, someone who haggled and compromised and knew when to hold her tongue or smother her pride.
His illogical irritation against the boys evaporated. They weren’t attacking and Morwyn was in no danger. He strode back to her and shoved the boy toward the door. “You can empty this tub now.”
As the three of them scuttled from the room he turned to her. She was staring at him, a frown creasing her brow, as if she was trying to work something out.
“Does everyone cower before you in terror?”
Her question shouldn’t matter. And yet a dull ache punched through his chest, instantly gone, but the echo remained.
Not a flicker of such emotion touched his face. “I’ve yet to see you cower before me, Morwyn.”
She arched her eyebrows. “And you never will, Gaul.” She glanced at his outstretched hand, as if contemplating whether or not to accept his assistance. And then he recalled her injured leg.
“Do you wish me to lift you out?”
Her eyes glittered in the flickering glow from the lamps. For a moment he thought she was going to accept his offer. But then she glanced at the open door and appeared to reconsider.
“I can manage.” She tucked the cloth securely around her breasts, gripped the edge of the tub and gingerly lifted her injured leg. Even in this muted light he could see the ugly bruises marring her lower thigh.
Trogus would pay. With interest.
With a smothered sigh she sat on the edge of the bed and began to dry her legs with the second cloth. Her movements were graceful, sensuous, but she appeared unaware of her seduction. There were no sideways glances, no fluttering of eyelashes. She appeared on the verge of exhaustion.
Bren shifted his weight from one foot to the other but it did nothing to relieve the arousal thudding along the length of his shaft. Why had he arranged for food to be delivered to their room? Without such interruption they could now be slaking their desire.
But no. He’d not wanted others to see Morwyn’s battered face when they ate in the tavern. Hadn’t wanted to tolerate the inevitable muffled whispers, be the recipient of more distrustful looks, or have his character assassinated yet again for actions he’d not committed.
The boys returned and began to empty the tub with their buckets. He dragged his gaze from the hypnotic sweep of Morwyn’s hands along her legs and strode to the chest.
“I trust you’re hungry.”
“So long as it’s not filthy Roman imports.” She dried her arms, seemingly unaware or unconcerned by the furtive glances thrown her way by the boys as they entered and left the room.
He sniffed the guinea fowl. “Imported, yes. But not filthy.”
Her sigh was audible. He looked over at her as she dried her hair with the cloth and she caught his gaze. “I’m so famished I’ll eat their heathen food. My pride doesn’t extend to starving myself over such a minor point.”
His lip twitched but through sheer force of habit he suppressed the smile that threatened to escape. Gods. He’d met her only a few hours ago yet she’d tempted him to laughter more often this day than he could recall during the last half-dozen years.
“I’m glad your survival instincts are so strong.”
She gave the ends of her hair one final squeeze before tossing the saturated cloth onto the floor by the now-emptied tub. “My survival instincts are intact.” She pushed herself from the bed and came beside him to frown at the food. The top of her head didn’t even reach his jaw. “I doubt it will kill me to eat such barbarous offerings on occasion.”
Her fresh scent invaded his senses, clean and pure. But she appeared utterly focused on the food, as if their earlier interaction
had never occurred.
As the boys dragged the tub from the room and finally shut the door, Bren handed her a plate. “You may find you like it.”
She wrinkled her nose as she scooped up some carrots. “There’s nothing wrong with our own food. These people are Britons. Why do they serve Roman muck?”
He tore the guinea fowl into portions and dropped a quarter onto her plate. She stared at it as if he’d just offered her a severed hand.
“Not everything foreign is inherently inferior.”
Morwyn wiped a finger across the poultry and then licked the flavor with her tongue. Her frown didn’t waver. “It is when the foreigners concerned are Romans.”
Mostly, he agreed. But he’d lived the Roman way for too many years now not to have seen advantages to their systems. Their military system in particular. They hadn’t conquered the civilized world through luck alone, no matter how his people might wish that was so.
“Sometimes survival calls for compromise.” As he’d compromised for the last few years, inveigling himself with the enemy to learn their weaknesses and exploit their arrogant pride.
“No.” Morwyn’s tone was firm as she settled herself against the pillows on the bed, her plate piled surprisingly high considering her opinion of the feast. “I’d never go against my principles, simply to survive under the yoke of Rome.”
“And yet you have no compunction in eating their imported food.” He poured the wine and sat beside her, and shot her a sardonic glance as she ate the guinea fowl with apparent relish. Would she enjoy the Roman wine as much? He hadn’t thought to ask if she’d prefer the locally brewed ale.
She wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “Nothing else is available.” Then her brow creased as if she realized she’d just inadvertently agreed with him. “This is different. It’s not what I meant at all.”
“It’s still a compromise.” He shoveled in a mouthful of vegetables so she wouldn’t see the grin threatening to crack his lips. He didn’t know why he found contradicting her enjoyable. Gods, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d enjoyed a conversation to this degree.
Except he could. More than six years ago. For a moment the memories seared through his brain, recollections of laughter and love and careless words that could be uttered without first analyzing their possible intent.
And tonight, with Morwyn, he once again spoke without thought of how his words might be interpreted. With a woman who believed him her worst enemy, a woman who would betray him given the slightest opportunity.
“I don’t agree.” There was an edge in her voice, as if she didn’t appreciate having her remarks twisted. “In fact, what could be better than nourishing myself on the enemy’s food in order to—” She snapped her jaw together as if she belatedly recalled to whom she was speaking, before once again biting into the enemy’s food.
“Stab him in the back?” It was ironically amusing they both believed in that. Because that was exactly the plan he’d been following for the last three years.
She swallowed the guinea fowl and looked as if she were about to choke, but after a moment she composed herself. “Not literally.” She didn’t meet his eyes. This conversation might be stimulating but it also served as a reminder. He couldn’t trust her. No matter how he wished otherwise.
“What, then?”
An oddly vulnerable look flashed across her face, as if she were recalling painful memories. Of whom did she think? Her lover? Had he died at the hands of the enemy? Was that the reason Morwyn was so vocal in her condemnation?
If so, they had another bond in common. Another he could never share with her.
“I’d never betray my people.” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper, as if once again she forgot whom she was talking to. As if the words came from her soul, and weren’t uttered with the primary objective of insulting his honor. “Not for the enemy. And not for the gods.”
The gods? That, he hadn’t expected. Under what circumstances did she imagine their gods would want them to betray their people?
He might not think that much of the gods anymore. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d worshipped them or offered them sacrifice. But no matter how he despised them for ignoring his agonized entreaties so many years ago, deep in his heart he knew they’d never willingly submit to the Roman invaders.
Slowly she turned to look at him, her dark eyes unfocused as though she were no longer in this room with him, but reliving her past. Silently he offered her a goblet and she blinked, as if emerging from a trance, and took the wine without protest.
She gulped down the golden liquid as if it were water, despite the way her nose crinkled as though the taste didn’t best please her. But he wasn’t about to risk drinking the water provided by the innkeeper. Even now, he preferred to fill his waterskins from source, where it gushed unpolluted from the earth.
Silence stretched between them, yet it wasn’t a silence of animosity nor did it crackle with resentment or fear. If circumstances were different, he’d think it companionable.
Her head dropped against his shoulder and need blazed through his groin, igniting the embers, reawakening his lust. He looked down at her, expecting a sultry smile or at least eyes reflecting the extent of their mutual desire.
Only the top of her head was visible as she slumped against him, and he snatched her goblet before it tumbled from her slack fingers.
She’d fallen asleep. It had nothing to do with how much she trusted him, because he knew she didn’t trust him at all, and yet still an odd pain split through his chest at how vulnerable sleep rendered her.
Without shifting the arm upon which Morwyn rested, he piled their plates and goblets onto the timber chest. He was sweaty and filthy from their ride and now, while she slept, was the perfect moment to visit the bathhouse.
Stealthily he slid from her unconscious embrace and lowered her head to the pillows. She curled into a ball, hair spread around her like black flame, oblivious to how the cloth barely covered her enticing breasts or luscious buttocks.
It would be so easy to leave her as she was. But if she awoke, she’d take instant advantage to escape. And it wasn’t safe outside for a woman alone, no matter how skilled with a dagger she might be.
But even as the thought slithered through his mind, even as he made sure she’d be unable to leave him without his consent, the harsh truth bubbled like acid through his lies.
He didn’t want her to disappear in the night because her quick tongue and tempting body relieved the stark reality of his existence.
Chapter Eight
From the depths of slumber, Morwyn stirred. Various points of her body throbbed and disjointed memories tumbled through her mind.
She was with the Gaul. She didn’t recall falling asleep and stealthily peered through her lashes but he wasn’t lying by her side. Surely it wasn’t morn already and he’d risen?
Before irritation could flood her at the possibility he’d slept by her side all night without touching her, she realized the light was all wrong. The lamps were still burning. The remains of their meal still cluttered the top of the chest.
Perhaps he’d merely gone to the bathhouse.
Heat flickered low in her womb and a smile tugged at her lips. Gaining his trust had been easier than she’d thought. If she wasn’t so desperate to see Carys, there would be nothing to stop her from escaping her captor while he luxuriated in his Roman masters’ bath.
But even though she had no intention of escaping, she most certainly needed her medicine bag. It had been many moons since she’d bothered with the contraceptive teas. Not since the Druids had fled Cymru and Carys had chosen her Roman lover above her people. There had been no need. From that night she’d no longer welcomed Gawain into her arms and there had been no other man since.
It would be easy enough to persuade the Gaul to procure her hot water. Even if he did now work for the enemy, he was still Celt-born. Would know how a woman needed to protect herself against unwanted pregnancy. But in case h
e’d been tainted by the foul Roman view of femininity, she’d tell him the infusions were for some other womanly complaint.
She smiled again, well satisfied by her plan, and ignoring the protests of her abused muscles stretched languorously, arms above her head, flexing cramped legs.
Unaccustomed weight dragged the ankle of her uninjured leg and she froze, momentarily stunned into stupidity, unable to comprehend the obvious reason for such constraint.
He wouldn’t dare. She wouldn’t believe it. But still she remained flat on the bed, unwilling to see the evidence with her own eyes as rage thundered through her blood and pounded against her temples.
Finally she jerked upright and glared at the ugly shackle enclosing her ankle that attached to an equally ugly iron chain that trailed over the end of the bed.
He’s put me in chains.
An inarticulate hiss spilled from her lips, and her fingers clawed uselessly against her thighs. So much for imagining she’d gained his trust. The bastard had tethered her like an animal, as if she were his property, as if she were—
The door cracked open, as though whoever entered wanted to do so without waking her. She clamped her teeth together and glowered as the Gaul caught her eye, and he kicked the door shut behind him, obviously no longer concerned with stealth.
He approached, as if nothing were wrong. She wouldn’t lower herself to speak to him. Wouldn’t demean herself by engaging in a confrontation. She’d lie down, turn her back and show him just how little she cared that he’d put her in chains.
“I didn’t think you’d be awake yet.” He sat at the foot of the bed but the Roman scents and spices or whatever he’d used in the barbaric bathing ritual saturated the air, weaved into her senses and distorted her mind.
Her fingernails dug into her palms. She didn’t care that he no longer stank of horse or travel. It made no difference that his hair was damp, his jaw freshly shaved, or that he smelled like something that had walked out of her most erotic dreams.
Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2) Page 6
