Forbidden

by Christina Phillips

Her stomach fluttered, twisting between bemusement and innate offense. And yet Maximus meant no insult by his comment; she could see that by his eyes, by his smile, by the tone of his voice.

  She swallowed down her stinging retort. Her shame.

  “It’s not something I’m proud of.” The words rasped against her throat and she was relieved when Maximus didn’t laugh at her again but instead began to frown.

  “You’ve lost me.” He sounded concerned. And then his frown darkened as comprehension dawned. “You’re still ashamed of being with me.”

  His comment was so far from the truth she almost laughed herself, despite the way she also wanted to dive under the water and hide.

  She flattened her hands against his chest, thrilling to the way his wet hair caressed her palms, the way his steady heartbeat vibrated through her blood.

  And in that moment of connection, she understood.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The breath hissed between her lips and a shiver slithered along her spine. Maximus had his own gods, his own culture and customs, and they weren’t hers.

  He laughed because he thought she was flirting. Not because he mocked her beliefs.

  He possessed no knowledge of her beliefs.

  Her head dropped to his shoulder so he wouldn’t witness the blood flooding her cheeks. She’d had no need to explain to him. No reason to justify her lack of lovers.

  And yet she’d told him the most intimate details. Things she’d never spoken of before. And there had been no need.

  A mortified groan escaped and she resisted when he forcibly maneuvered her upright.

  “Well?” His demand was harsh and she attempted to recall why he looked so mad, when she knew it had nothing to do with the way she’d slighted the Morrigan for so many years.

  “I misunderstood.” She had the overwhelming urge to screw her eyes shut but refused to allow herself such luxury. “I thought you laughed because you found humor in my lack of homage.” She sucked in a shaky breath. “But I was wrong. I think.” And she shot him a desperate glance.

  There was an excruciating silence as he raked his gaze over her burning face. She curled her toes and attempted to pull her hands from his chest, but Maximus pressed even closer, so they were meshed together and it was impossible for her to move a muscle without his permission.

  Finally his scrutiny eased and he brushed an errant curl from her cheek. “There’s much about you I don’t yet understand.” His voice was gentle. “But I would never knowingly mock your ways.” He hesitated for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “I know your gods are important to you. I regret my actions made you think otherwise.”

  The trembling knot of agony in the center of her chest eased, by a merest degree. “I should never have confessed to you.” Could she ever live it down? And not only had she shared her darkest secrets with Maximus; she had also come perilously close to telling him the entire nature of her status.

  A shiver coursed through her. No matter how he professed to respect her beliefs, he would never respect her right as a Druid.

  “Carys.” His whisper was an erotic caress along her soul. “I’m happy you confessed to me.”

  The constriction in her chest ebbed and she realized she no longer minded Maximus knowing of her lack.

  Because Maximus didn’t consider it a lack.

  She took a deep breath. “Then I’m glad I told you.”

  He tugged on her braid and began to unbind her wet hair. “You can tell me anything.”

  If only that were true. But she smiled up at him anyway, because she knew his offer was genuine. And knew how easily she could succumb and spill the most devastating secret of all.

  She moaned in protest when, after his fingers had worked magic against her scalp, he slid his arms around her and carried her from the bath. “I don’t want to go.” She wanted this night to last forever, because tonight might be all she would ever have.

  But he ignored her and she curled against his chest, squeezing her eyes shut against the world, against the knowledge that soon she would have to leave him once again. And this time he might not deign to take her back.

  He lowered her to her feet and swathed her in a huge length of absorbent cloth.

  “It’s warm.” She snuggled into the decadent softness. “Romans don’t care for the cold, do they?”

  He swiftly dried himself with another towel, his blue eyes never leaving hers. “Does the heat displease you?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then we Romans have our uses.” He indicated a stone bench covered with yet more towels. “Lie down.”

  Hiding a smile, Carys dropped her covering and stretched out, arms over her head, one knee provocatively bent.

  “On your front.”

  Her seductive smile wavered. Was he going to take her from behind, like an animal?

  She rolled over, and wondered if she was in the right position. But if she wasn’t, then Maximus would soon show her. It was a relief to realize she didn’t have to pretend experience of such things, when the only knowledge she possessed came from gossip with friends.

  Muscles tense with expectation she pillowed her cheek on her hands and raised her bottom into the air. Maximus made an odd choking noise and pressed the flat of his hand on the small of her back, until she was once again prone.

  “Don’t move again.” It was a command. “Gods, Carys. You don’t make this easy for me.”

  She watched him grab a small amphorae from the nearby stone plinth.

  “Are you ready?” But he scarcely waited for her uncertain nod before he straddled her, his knees on either side of her hips, his calves imprisoning the length of her legs.

  And then his hands swept across her shoulders, firm, warm, slick with oil, and a shocked gasp shook her entire body.

  “Relax. This is supposed to be enjoyable.”

  His fingers massaged her stiff muscles, a rhythmic, tantalizing motion, and with another expulsion of air the tension seeped from her rigid limbs.

  His powerful legs imprisoned her, a willing captive, and corded muscles branded her back as he flattened himself onto her, his engorged shaft scorching her, and the pleasure of his touch sank through her skin, her muscles, and into the center of her heart.

  And threaded through every touch, every gasp, every delirious sensation, the stark knowledge glittered that he was more to her than a lover who had taught her the wonders of sex. More than the man who had wiped away the uneasy feelings of inadequacy she’d harbored for the last six years.

  More than her enemy, the conqueror of her people, the embodiment of Rome who would destroy everything she held dear.

  And as he administered his magic to her feet, and she tried in vain not to grind her hips against the towels that hugged her throbbing clit, she finally acknowledged the truth.

  She loved him. And that love could kill her.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Maximus rolled Carys onto her back, and she stared up at him through glazed eyes, her lips parted, her breath a series of erratic gasps.

  Gods, what had possessed him to start this? In theory he’d assumed it would be arousing and enjoyable. It was most certainly arousing, but the abstinence made the pleasure a knife’s edge of agony.

  She shifted her leg, hooked around his shoulder, pinning him against her welcoming heat. He braced his weight on his free arm, prepared to once again resume control.

  And then he glanced up at her.

  Her body gleamed in the ethereal flicker of the lanterns, her breasts full and proud, crowned by rosy nipples. And her head was raised, looking back at him, as beautiful and desirable as any artist’s depiction of Venus.

  “Come here.” Her whisper echoed around the bathhouse, wrapped its sensuous command around his mind. He couldn’t recall why he had to resist, why he had to refuse her open arms.

  “I haven’t yet finished.” But he made no move to reassert control, because the vision before him was too tempting to disturb.


  She gripped his throat with both hands and pulled. Without knowing why, he followed her lead, gliding up her slick body, the oil sliding onto his skin, warm and fragrant.

  He towered over her, his wood nymph, his Celtic lady, his Carys. “Why do you never do as you are bid?”

  “Because”—Carys gasped as she flexed her thighs and dug her heels into his backside—“I’m not your slave, Maximus. I’m your woman.”

  He sank into her and she cried out and grasped him to her, meshed as one. The oil he had massaged over her willing flesh coated him, their slick bodies coming together in rising frenzy.

  “My woman.” He growled the words into her flushed face. Found satisfaction she, like him, knew her place in his life.

  “Always.” He barely heard her breathless response, but her meaning intoxicated his senses, sent the remnants of his control spiraling into the abyss.

  And with every thrust, every touch, every mind-shattering moment of orgasm, he showed her how completely she was his woman.

  Always.

  Legs entwined with her love, Carys hovered on the blissful edge of sleep. Surely, tonight she had conceived his child. The moon phase was favorable, her body receptive. All that stood between conception and barrenness was the wrath of her sweet Cerridwen.

  She closed her eyes, focused her mind. Begged forgiveness for her transgression, begged Cerridwen to intercede on her behalf with the Morrigan.

  After all, wasn’t she now worshipping the Morrigan in the way the great goddesses had always demanded? Didn’t that count for anything? Didn’t it make up for the way she had taken the sacred root without proper ritual or permission?

  For a moment she recalled the terrifying fury of the Morrigan as she stood at the crossroads. The impotent rage as she had looked into the future. The eerie certainty that, implausibly, the goddess somehow held Carys accountable.

  That was impossible. Why would the Greatest Goddess of them all blame Carys for something so utterly beyond her control? And why had she looked through her as though she weren’t even there?

  “Carys.” Maximus’s lazy voice jerked her back to the present and her eyes snapped open. He was propped on one elbow, looking down at her with a satisfied smile on his face. “What’s the matter?” He traced a finger across her brow, and she realized she was frowning.

  She drew in a jagged breath and relaxed her muscles. She could pretend all was well, or she could tell Maximus the truth.

  There was so much she could never reveal to him, so she decided on the truth. At least, part of the truth. She couldn’t confide her fears regarding the Morrigan with him—she didn’t even understand them herself.

  “I was asking Cerridwen to forgive me.”

  His smile slipped a notch. “For sleeping with the enemy?”

  She puffed out an exhausted laugh. “No. I fear I offended her earlier today. It was nothing to do with being with you.”

  Except that was a lie, because it had everything to do with being with Maximus. She decided that didn’t count.

  He grunted in clear disapproval. “I respect your devotion to your goddess, but would prefer you didn’t think of her while still glowing from our union.”

  She reached up to cradle his jaw. “I can scarcely think of anything but you.”

  His frown vanished. “Better.” He reached across her, his powerful chest scraping across her sensitized breasts. “Where in Tartarus is that strigil?”

  She breathed deep, savoring the scent of man, of fragranced oil and hot, sweaty sex. Why did the one she had finally given her heart to have to be a Roman? How many stolen moments from time could they enjoy before they were discovered?

  “Now, lie still.” Maximus loomed over her, and from the corner of her eye she caught sight of a curved blade glinting in the lamplight.

  She held her breath as he gently scraped the strigil over her oiled skin, and watched him meticulously clean the blade after every spine-tingling sweep.

  How many women had he pleasured this way in the past? His touch was so sure, his technique so skillful, he must have had plenty of practice.

  It didn’t please her, despite the fact she was now the beneficiary of his expertise.

  “You’re frowning again.” He waved the strigil under her nose. “I trust you’re not communing with your Cerridwen while I slave here for your every comfort.”

  “No. I was simply wondering how many women you’ve done this to before.”

  “This?” He glanced at the strigil, as if he’d never seen it before. “Do you think I was a slave in Rome?” The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he found the concept amusing.

  “I don’t know what you were in Rome.” She knew he had been no slave. “All I know is you command your soldiers here in Cymru.”

  “In Rome,” he said, gliding the blade along the curve of her breast, “slaves would take care of such menial tasks.” He flashed her a grin. “I’m gratified we’re not in Rome. This experience far exceeds my expectations.”

  “Then you also are not of the peasant class.” But she knew that already. His bearing was regal, his attitude that of one who expected deference as his right. It went deeper than military rank. It was in his blood, his bones. His heritage.

  “Does it matter?”

  It shouldn’t. And yet it did. Not because she wanted him to be of similar status to herself. But because she craved to know everything she possibly could about him.

  “Do you miss your kin?”

  He flicked her an amused glance. “Believe me, distance is a virtue when it comes to my father.”

  She tried to imagine living so far away from her own relatives, being unable to see them whenever the desire arose. Her mother, who had visited distant kin on the Isle of Mon ten moons ago and intended to be gone only a short while, became stranded once the invasion spread, and Carys missed her wise words, her infectious laugh and irreverent sense of fun more every day.

  “Is that why you joined the Legion?”

  “I was always destined for a brief sojourn in the military.” The strigil brushed perilously close to her pussy and she tensed involuntarily. He glanced up. “It bestows honor on one’s family.”

  “So you only joined up to honor your family?” That meant he hadn’t voluntarily become a soldier or conquered her land.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then why did you join?” But she didn’t really care. Because if he had not joined his famed Roman Legion, they would never have met.

  “If you insist on knowing, I ran away to join the Legion when I was eighteen years old.” From between her legs he shot her an evil grin. “To prove that I could.”

  She speared her fingers through his short hair, rubbed the spikes over her palm. “You rebelled.”

  “You’re not supposed to laugh.” But he looked as if he was on the verge of laughing also. “It’s unheard of for the son of a prominent senator to be a mere centurion in the lowest cohort. I’m astonished my father didn’t disown me entirely.”

  “I’m sure he’s proud of your success now.” She rubbed his head again. “Surely it’s honorable to work your way up the ranks?”

  “Not for a patrician.” He pushed his head against her hand, as if encouraging her to continue. “The parents of my betrothed were so scandalized they ensured all of Rome knew of my appalling behavior.”

  Carys dug her fingers into Maximus’s scalp as her bubbling laughter vaporized. “Your betrothed?” She dug her fingernails in further and ignored the pained expression on his face. “You’re married?”

  Why had that not occurred to her before? Of course he was married. He wasn’t a common foot soldier. He was an officer. And a Roman patrician.

  And he probably possessed a perfect Roman noblewoman as his wife.

  Her stomach churned with sudden distress. Had he also fathered children with the weak-minded harridan?

  He twisted his head from her grasp. Laughter gleamed in his beautiful blue eyes, and her fingers clawed as the te
mpting vision of gouging them from his sockets thudded through her mind.

  “Careful.” He waved the strigil at her as he knelt between her spread knees. “I don’t like that look on your face.”

  “I asked you a question.” She propped herself up on her elbows and glowered at him.

  “At the time I joined up, my betrothed”—he emphasized the word and offered her an inappropriate grin—“was three years old. Her parents were offended that her future husband was a common centurion and severed the contract.”

  Carys narrowed her eyes. “And?”

  “And they demanded recompense from my family.” The humor faded from his face. “I’m not proud of that. But my father and I had just had another gods-awful fight, and all I wanted was to get away.”

  Carys didn’t care about his father. “Were you given another wife?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched as if she had just said something amusing. “No other family would touch me after my former betrothed’s parents had finished blackening my name.”

  “So you don’t have a wife waiting for you back in Rome?”

  Although why it mattered, she wasn’t going to analyze, because it wasn’t as if she could ever be his wife or bear his recognized children.

  No matter how much she wanted to. That didn’t make her a traitor. She couldn’t help how she felt about him.

  “Jupiter.” He clasped her waist, and the bone handle of the strigil dug into her skin. “I do not possess a wife in Rome or anywhere else.” He paused for a moment as if reassessing his declaration. “And I don’t intend to have any such encumbrance for a good many years yet.”

  She sucked in a long breath and willed her heart to stop hurting. There would be plenty of time, years, eternity, for her heart to ache once she and Maximus were severed by fate.

  She couldn’t let her feelings come between them now, couldn’t let her newly discovered love create barriers when their time together was fraught with so much jeopardy beyond her control.

  Besides, he wasn’t married. He had no wife.

  She smiled and rubbed his head once again to indicate her forgiveness. “Why did you and your father fight?”