Forbidden

by Christina Phillips

  He had never considered her his slave. Had never wanted her as his slave. And with a slither of disbelief he realized she had once again got her way.

  He rapped sharply on the door. “Efa knows I speak your barbaric tongue. Your translator idea won’t work.”

  Carys’s breath hissed between her teeth. “Then you brought me along for propriety’s sake.”

  Before he could respond to that, the door opened and Efa blinked up at him, in obvious confusion. Her black hair coiled over her shoulder in a long braid and her face looked unnaturally pale.

  “My lord.” She hovered uncertainly, her eyes apprehensive. Then she noticed Carys, and her entire face stretched with horrified disbelief.

  He tensed. Over the last few months several officers had taken mistresses. To his knowledge, the women hadn’t been unduly harassed by the Celts as they began to understand the advantages that embracing Rome and all she could offer entailed.

  While he’d pandered to Carys’s desire for concealment, deep down he’d thought she was overreacting. But the way Efa gaped at her, the way he could feel the girl’s shocked antagonism rolling from her, splintered his previously held convictions.

  And this reaction came from the ex-mistress of a Roman Tribune, a young woman who had willingly fucked Faustus and accompanied him whenever he had wished it. It was hypocritical and unbelievable, but if Efa directed such venom toward Carys, then how in Tartarus would the general populace respond toward her?

  Carys stepped into the room as if it were her right, and, feeling entirely out of place, Maximus followed her, Branwen taking up the rear.

  “I regret meeting you this way, Efa, while in such company.”

  It was odd hearing Carys speak the Celtic language when he was so used to her fluent Latin. He flicked his glance toward Efa to see how she took the slight against him, but she didn’t look appeased.

  “The Roman accosted me while I communed with Cerridwen.”

  He shot Carys a dark glare. It was all very well attempting to soothe the dark-haired Celt’s feelings, but accosted? That was harsh.

  Efa’s hostility wavered. “You aren’t with him?” Her voice was low, as if she didn’t wish him to hear, so he kept his expression blank and glanced with feigned interest around the Roman-furnished room.

  “I came here to see you.”

  It was uncanny how she didn’t lie, and yet also managed not to tell the truth. An unsavory notion whispered through his mind. Had Carys used this tactic on him, without him realizing?

  “Forgive me, my lady.” Efa bowed her head. “I know you would never—I—Forgive me. I’m not myself this morn.”

  His interest sharpened. Efa’s demeanor was suddenly servile. And although he knew Carys was no peasant, that her family was of the chieftain class that in Roman society would equate to the nobility, there was something else going on here.

  Something he couldn’t see. But, unaccountably, he could feel it, humming in the air, sparking along his senses.

  An eerie shudder inched along his spine.

  “The Tribune has a message for you.” Carys turned to him, and he saw the disapproval glinting in her eyes.

  He cleared his throat, mentally cursing her. Did she think he was enjoying this excruciating encounter?

  Efa also turned toward him, but fear tinged her face. “Is my lord Faustus well?”

  “He is quite well.” Maximus’s voice was gruff, and he frowned at her, as he imagined stringing Faustus up for putting him in such an awkward position. “He is on his way back to Rome.”

  “Rome?” Efa pressed a hand against her breast. Gods, he hoped she wasn’t going to faint. Thank Minerva he’d thought to bring Carys along.

  He pulled the pouch of gold coins from his belt. “He wanted you to have this.”

  Efa stared at him uncomprehendingly. Maximus swallowed and proffered the pouch a little closer. “As a token of his regard.”

  Carys made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, and he favored her with a quelling glare that, naturally, she ignored.

  “Faustus has left me?”

  Sweat prickled across his brow. What had possessed him to agree to Faustus’s outrageous request?

  “Yes.”

  To his vague horror, Efa swayed as if she were about to collapse. Carys gripped her hands, steadying her, but as she did so an incomprehensible blend of emotions washed over her face: elation, relief—followed instantly by iron purpose.

  “Sit down.” Carys’s tone brooked no argument, not that Efa looked capable of disagreement. Maximus watched Carys settle the younger woman on a chair, still holding her hands. “It’ll be all right, Efa. You have no need to fear.”

  She would have no money problems either, if the wretched woman would take the gold. He dropped the pouch onto a side table and flexed his fingers. He hoped Carys wouldn’t take too long to calm Efa. He needed to resume his tribunal duties, but before then he wanted to ensure Carys was safely back in his quarters.

  “He didn’t say he was leaving.” Efa sounded on the point of tears. Maximus shifted uncomfortably.

  “Forget the Roman.” Carys sounded as if she meant it. He looked at her. Did she mean it? Somehow he’d imagined she would be more sympathetic to Efa’s distress. But then, what did he know of women’s distress in these matters?

  Efa gave a sob. Carys crouched before her. Maximus stared in growing confusion. What was going on?

  “Efa.” Carys’s voice had softened. “You must put the Roman behind you. You’ve the future to think of. You must be strong, for the sake of your babe.”

  Maximus stared at her, and as the weight of her words thudded into his brain, he dragged his gaze to Efa. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t responded, simply sat on her chair with a vacant expression on her face.

  He dropped his gaze to her flat belly. Fuck. She was pregnant? How could Carys know? By the look of it, even Efa didn’t know. She certainly wasn’t showing.

  Branwen moved to Efa’s other side and patted her shoulder, as if offering comfort. Maximus had the overpowering urge to march from the room and leave the women to it, but he was a Tribune, and he couldn’t leave before this situation had been satisfactorily resolved.

  He cleared his throat. “Are you with child, Efa?”

  Efa shivered. “If my lady says so.”

  He’d already concluded Carys was a healer. She obviously had more skill than he had given her credit for. Although how she had discovered such a thing about Efa without an examination was beyond his comprehension.

  Perhaps it was another mystical Celtic way Rome had yet to master.

  “We won’t speak of it now,” Carys said gently. “But I’ll see you later today, or tomorrow, and we can discuss what you wish to do.”

  Her words washed over him as he focused on her profile, and stark realization dawned. For all he knew, Carys also could be pregnant. With his child.

  Heat flared through him. The possibility had never occurred to him before this moment. The first time he’d taken her, he’d assumed—in a distant, unimportant corner of his mind—she had taken feminine precautions to ensure against such catastrophe.

  He’d known she was no whore, but she was a Celt and their ways were different, their women less constrained than those of noble Roman birth.

  But Carys had known only one other man besides him. And been celibate for the last three years.

  Yet she was a healer. Doubtless she knew of such things. But suppose she did not?

  “I don’t know what to do.” Efa pressed a hand against her belly. “How can I have Faustus’s babe if he’s not here to protect me?”

  “Will your kin take you back?”

  Efa flicked Carys a despairing look. “Not with a bastard to feed.”

  Shit. His muscles were so knotted they pained him, and he desired nothing better than to vanish from the room. He was an interloper, eavesdropping on intimate female conversation, and the experience was torturous.

  Carys stood, extricated her h
ands from Efa’s and collected the pouch he’d left on the table. “Here.” She placed the pouch between Efa’s listless fingers. “This is yours. And remember. There’s no need to burden yourself with a reminder of Rome if you don’t wish it.”

  He definitely shouldn’t be listening to this conversation. But he was rooted to the spot, unable to move. Unable to take his eyes from Carys. She no longer reminded him of a well-bred Roman lady. She was a Celt, a foreigner, a woman who knew things he could scarcely comprehend, a woman whose every word this peasant girl not only believed, but respected.

  Efa shuddered and her fingers clasped the pouch. “My lady, I do want the babe. It’s the only thing I’ll have of Faustus to love.”

  Carys nodded and stroked a gentle hand along the girl’s arm. “Then I shall find alternative arrangements for you, Efa. I’ll make a sacrifice to sweet Cerridwen and beg her favor.”

  Efa gripped Carys’s hand and kissed it reverently. Ragged claws crawled along Maximus’s spine at the gesture, which hovered perilously close to worship.

  Women’s concerns. The words thundered through his brain, obliterating the strands of doubt. He had never witnessed anything like this before, and by Jupiter he never wanted to again. Efa was frightened and Carys offered comfort. Of course the peasant girl was grateful. Of course she would show her gratitude in such a way.

  He was seeing shadows where there were none.

  “If my lady has no objection,.” Branwen sounded hesitant, as if unsure of Carys’s reaction. “Efa could stay with me. There’s only my grandfather at home.”

  A look of wonder flashed across Carys’s face, as if Branwen had just uttered something extraordinary. “A babe,” she whispered, and the hairs on his arms shivered at her tone. “Efa, what do you think of this arrangement?”

  “I suppose.” She didn’t sound entirely convinced, but Carys didn’t appear to notice as she reached out and took Branwen’s hand.

  “The babe will strengthen your grandfather’s heart, restore his will to live. Truly, Cerridwen moves in the most mysterious of ways.” And she smiled radiantly, as if all the ills in the world had suddenly been cured.

  “Carys.” His voice was harsh, an unwelcome intrusion, but he couldn’t stand any more of this womanly talk or adoration of the barbarous Cerridwen. “We have to leave.”

  “Yes, of course.” Carys agreed so quickly he was unnerved. He’d expected her to argue, to say she couldn’t possibly leave Efa alone in such a state, or that she needed to make arrangements for the girl’s relocation.

  He didn’t trust her swift acquiescence.

  “Branwen, you’ll stay here with Efa to ensure she has everything she needs.” Carys spoke with quiet authority, as if she had every right to issue orders to Branwen. To the girl he had acquired to be her own personal maid. “I want Efa out of here and installed in your home as swiftly as possible.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Branwen seemed just as eager.

  Carys glanced over at him. Something about her had changed since they’d been in this room, and although he couldn’t fathom what, he could feel the difference in her, an inner energy, as if a lamp had been ignited in her soul.

  “My lord Tribune.”

  It took him a moment to realize she was addressing him. “What is it, Celt?” He infused each word with as much disdain as possible. See how she enjoyed being on the receiving end.

  The corner of her mouth quirked, as if she struggled not to smile at his attempt at offense. “Does everything in this room now belong to Efa?”

  Everything in this room had the touch of Rome. Faustus had undoubtedly furnished its entirety from his own pocket. “It does.”

  When they finally left the tavern, Carys had to restrain the urge to fling her arms around Maximus and tell him how much she loved him.

  Cerridwen had returned.

  Even now, she could scarcely believe it. But there was no doubt. Cerridwen had been with her, had shown her the spark of life within Efa’s womb, and how to smooth the life-path of not just Efa, but Branwen’s grandfather also, whose heart still trembled with the loss of Branwen’s sister and stillborn child.

  “I thought you didn’t want to draw attention to yourself.” There was an odd note in Maximus’s voice, as if he was torn between frustration and amusement.

  “What?” She glanced up at him, floundered in the beautiful blue of his eyes and again wanted to claim him for her very own in front of the world.

  “You’re all but dancing. Not that I particularly disapprove, but people are staring.”

  She immediately reined in her exuberance. “Thank you for bringing me.” She kept her voice low. “Cerridwen awaited me there.”

  A frown flashed over his face, as if he didn’t think much of Cerridwen. But she wanted him to love her goddess, perhaps not as she loved her, but enough so she could tell him of Cerridwen’s great wisdom and generosity.

  And forgiveness.

  Joy bubbled through her heart once again at the knowledge Cerridwen had forgiven her transgression. Truly, she would give great sacrifice to her goddess. Anything she desired.

  Almost anything.

  “Efa didn’t know she was with child, did she?”

  She dragged her attention back to the present. “No. But it is very early. She’ll feel the changes in her body soon enough.”

  His jaw tightened, as if she’d given too much information for comfort. “How did you know, Carys?”

  She opened her mouth to tell him exactly how she’d known, when a slither of alarm alerted her senses.

  He was her beloved, and she defied her people to be with him. But he was still Rome, and Rome was the enemy of her blood.

  The euphoria dimmed. There would always be some secrets she must keep from him. For both their sakes.

  “I’m a healer, Maximus. I’ve always had a particular affinity with feminine conditions.” It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

  “And what of you?” He was still frowning, but concern threaded his words.

  “Me?” She tried to understand what he meant, but failed. “What of me, Maximus?”

  He pulled her to a stop, his hands on her shoulders. “You might also be with child.”

  If only.

  But as she stared into his unsmiling face, the certainty gripped her that Maximus would be appalled by such an occurrence.

  She sucked in a deep breath. “There’s no need to fear on my account. I would never burden you with such an encumbrance.”

  “Burden me?” His eyes narrowed as his frown intensified. “That’s not my concern, Carys.” He sounded offended, as if she had deliberately misunderstood his meaning.

  So what did he mean?

  “Maximus, you don’t have to worry about it.” But even as the words left her lips, a chill shivered through her.

  Just days ago she’d been so sure their liaison would be of short duration. How could it be anything more? Sooner or later the Druids would rise against their oppressors and, with the fury of the gods to guide them, obliterate the enemy forever.

  But what if the long-promised attack never occurred? Her heart lurched in strangled delight at the prospect of being able to see Maximus indefinitely. But then what of her plans to conceive his child? Would he still desire her as her body changed or would he lose interest?

  “I’m not worrying for myself.” His fingers tightened around her shoulders as if he wanted to give her a good shake. “I’m thinking of you. Did you—uh—take precautions?”

  He looked tortured, as if the conversation crucified him. As if Roman men usually never spoke of such matters.

  She smothered a sigh and pressed her hand against his heart. “I know what to do. All is well, Maximus.”

  Back at his quarters, Maximus stared at Carys in growing disbelief. “You’ll stay here,” he said, “until I return.”

  “So I’m your prisoner?”

  He ignored her inane accusation. “How can you think of leaving?” He just prevented himse
lf from adding me. “Every time I turn my back, some rutting male attacks you.”

  She flushed, and far from feeling victorious he felt only a rising sensation of dreaded frustration.

  “If you lend me a suitable weapon, then I’ll be able to defend myself.”

  He almost laughed in her face, but not with amusement. With derision. How could a woman as fragile as Carys hope to compete against a full-grown man blinded by lust?

  “You’re no warrior maiden, Carys.” He meant it as a compliment, for what did he need with one of those heathen females? But Carys stiffened in clear affront, and he realized yet again he’d managed to insult her culture without intent.

  He let out an impatient breath, battened down his irritation and took her hands. “I mean no disrespect. But I can’t allow you to wander the countryside unprotected. Look what happened yesterday. If I hadn’t found you when I did, you would have been raped—perhaps even murdered.” A nauseous chill invaded his stomach at the image and he banished the thought with a shudder. He would never allow Carys to put herself in such danger again.

  “That won’t happen again.” There was a note of iron in her voice, as if she had reached a decision of which he had no knowledge. “I learn from my mistakes, Maximus. It was wrong of me to go to the Cauldron and—” She cut herself off, and blinked as if she had forgotten what she was about to say.

  “Then let me hear no more of your insane wish to leave.” He relinquished her hands and turned, intending to ready himself for the day ahead. Where in Tartarus had the slave hidden his favorite fibula?

  “Do you think I won’t return to you?”

  He flicked his gaze over her, from the top of her golden head, her delicate features and enticing curves, to her leather-clad feet. How could a woman who looked as ethereal as Carys possess so stubborn a spirit?

  “Is that what you believe?” She rested her hand on his arm, demanding an answer.

  Impossible female.

  And yet, deep inside, an illogical certainty formed. He knew she would return to him. She would always return to him.

  But only if he allowed her to go of his own free will.

  A dull throb pounded at his temples. Women were there for comfort. For convenience. They were not supposed to cause a man headaches and make him question his own integrity.