Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Read online

  ENSLAVED

  The Druid Chronicles, Book 3

  Christina Phillips

  Copyright Christina Phillips 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Enslaved was previously published as Betrayed in 2013

  Cover Art by Kellie Dennis at Book Cover by Design

  All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

  ***

  When a Druid priestess falls for her Roman captor she’s torn between her duty to her goddess and her love for the enemy…

  When Druid priestess Nimue is injured and enslaved by the hated Roman Legion she’s determined to escape and complete her covert mission for her beloved goddess, to eradicate the invaders from her land.

  But the tough warrior who captures her is far from the brutal barbarian she expects. Instead, Tacitus turns all her prejudices inside out, and it’s hard to remember he’s her enemy when she craves his touch more than her next breath. Her first loyalty is to her goddess, and she can’t afford to forget it.

  Tacitus is enchanted by the fiery beauty who shows no fear and challenges him at every turn. Though enslaving her goes against his heart, it’s the only way he can protect her. As a fragile trust grows between them, he believes they can have a future together. But when he discovers the depth of her betrayal, his loyalties are torn between his heritage and a woman who could destroy everything he’s ever believed in.

  Dedication

  For my darling boys, Vincent and Jack

  Acknowledgments

  As always, a big thank-you to my CPs Amanda Ashby and Sara Hantz. I don’t know how you guys put up with me but I’m very glad you do!

  For Emmanuelle Morgen, for never giving up on my Roman/Druid world. The ancient goddesses’ legacies will live on.

  And Caleb, weapons expert extraordinaire. You went above and beyond the call of duty in answering my questions—thank you!

  A special thank you to Anna Campbell and Kylie Griffin for all your help and support over the years. You ladies are awesome.

  And of course, to my husband Mark who never complains whenever I disappear into the first century, and our fabulous children who think it’s normal to have a mother who spends half her time in other worlds. Thank you, with all my heart.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter One

  Cymru, AD 51

  “I’ll find your daughter.” Nimue unsheathed her dagger and glanced over to Caratacus, where he stood glaring at his warriors. It was obvious the Briton king wanted to stay and fight the barbarous Romans, yet equally clear if he did, he would be captured. “Where are you heading?”

  “The land of the Brigantes,” one of the warriors said. Nimue gave a brief nod, turned and ran farther into the mountain, to where she had last seen Caratacus’ queen and daughter.

  She knew of the land of the Brigantes, even if she had never been there. It was in the north, one of the few places left in Britain that had not succumbed to Roman rule.

  Will my beloved Cymru succumb, now that the rebellion has failed?

  She wouldn’t think of it. Couldn’t think of it. The notion of Romans swarming over her land chilled her blood and sickened her stomach. She tightened her grip on her dagger, crouched low behind concealing rocks and sent desperate prayers to her Goddess, Arianrhod.

  Let me find the Briton queen before the enemy does.

  Battle cries split the blood-drenched air, the clash of sword and shield echoed through the mountain passes and the earth vibrated with the relentless march of the Legions. Nimue pushed back her sweaty hair and glanced over her shoulder. For the moment, she was alone. She leaped to her feet, sprinted across the trampled grass to the small stand of trees where, beyond, she hoped the queen remained along with other non-fighting women in the secluded hollow.

  “Choice is yours.” The coarse Latin accent punched through Nimue’s senses and she froze. She was too late. The Romans had discovered the hiding place. “You or your daughter.”

  Heart thudding high in her breast, Nimue edged toward the source of the voice. If there were only one or two legionaries, she might stand a chance. The queen was no warrior and the princess scarcely more than a child, but Nimue’s aim with the arrow was unerring. Stealthily she sheathed her dagger and primed her bow. The trees thinned and relief scudded through her blood.

  Only one filthy legionary loomed over the queen who shielded her terrified daughter with her body. As the legionary shoved the queen to the ground and prepared to mount her, Nimue let fly with her arrow and bared her teeth in satisfaction as the poisoned tip ripped into the heathen’s vulnerable neck.

  His strangled scream ended with a gurgle before she even reached the queen’s side. There was no sign of the other women. Clearly they had fled as the battle approached.

  “Where is the king?” The queen pushed herself to her feet and wound her arm around the princess. “We were about to follow the others farther up the mountain when that dog accosted us.”

  Thank the Goddess they hadn’t left this hollow. Nimue would never have found them otherwise.

  “I’m to take you to your king.” She slung her bow over her shoulder and glanced around to ensure they were still alone. But they would not be alone for much longer. “If we make haste we might catch up with them before they leave the mountain.”

  “Is the battle over?” The princess, barely twelve summers old, looked at the fallen legionary and shivered.

  Nimue reined in her impatience to leave this cursed mountain and turned to the girl to offer what comfort she could.

  “No. The battle will never be over. Always remember that.”

  “The Druid speaks the truth.” The queen smoothed her daughter’s tangled hair back from her face. “Be brave for a little longer. When we rest, she can tend your wound.”

  Her wound? Only then did Nimue see the bloodied cloth tied around the girl’s calf and another wave of impatience rolled through her. If only she possessed a sturdier frame, instead of the slender build she had inherited from her mother. While she was fast and agile on her feet and trai
ned brutally to strengthen her muscles, she knew the princess was too big for her to carry any distance. She hoped the injury wouldn’t slow them down.

  “We don’t have time to rest.” Her voice was harsh, in an effort to convey how grave the situation was. “Come quickly, before the barbarians smother this mountain.”

  Without waiting for a response, or to see if her blunt words caused offense—they were not, after all, her queen or princess—she turned and led the way back through the trees. To her right, farther down the mountain, she saw the Romans’ continued advance. No longer did they hold their shields over them in an impenetrable shell. There was no need. No Celt archers remained behind to rain death on their heads.

  There was no time for sorrow, but still the acidic pain clenched deep inside. As she gestured for the queen and princess to crouch low and follow her, she recalled how certain she had been of her people’s victory.

  This battle should have been decisive. It should have crushed the enemy underfoot. Caratacus had persuaded them with his vision of triumph to leave the safety of their magical enclave and follow him to this quagmire of devastation.

  They should never have left the enclave. They should have stayed and continued with the isolated attacks on the Legions. And she could have continued to unravel the mystery of the Source of Annwyn. The power the great High Druid, Aeron, had harnessed from the cradle of the gods themselves with the help of Gwydion, the greatest of the Magician Gods. The magic Aeron had used, through the sacred bluestones, to conceal his clan of Druids from the invaders.

  She ignored the labored breathing of the princess and the hushed encouragement of the queen to continue onward. Of course they had to continue onward. Just as she would continue onward with her quest.

  Her fingers instinctively curled around the small leather pouch attached to her belt. After Aeron’s heroic death, the immense bluestones that had protected his clan had shattered, catapulting precious shards across Cymru. From those shards, a second enclave had been created, a safe haven for the rebels in the midst of their enemy. And just before they had left their retreat, she’d stolen one of the shards and hidden it in her pouch.

  This defeat would not deter her. The shards of bluestone had protected and hidden the rebels from the Romans sight, but they were a faint echo of the original magic. Not even the wisest of the Druids had been able to comprehend how it worked. Only that it did. But she would discover how Aeron had manipulated the Source to his will. When she completed her mission, she would return to the enclave and pursue the sacred knowledge. Gwydion would not assist her, a lowly acolyte. But, as mighty as he was, he was not the greatest of the gods. Her beloved Arianrhod, the powerful Moon Goddess, surpassed him in wisdom and knowledge. And Arianrhod would assist Nimue so she could follow Aeron’s lead, and eliminate all Romans from the land of her foremothers.

  She heard a stumble from behind her, a pained gasp, and then the queen gripped her shoulder and forced her to turn around.

  “Druid, we must rest. My daughter is unable to travel any farther.”

  One glance at the princess confirmed the queen’s words. The girl was pale, sweaty and biting her lip in an effort not to make any sound of discomfort.

  Nimue again silently cursed the fact that she didn’t possess the brute warrior strength she craved. They would go no farther this day until she had treated the princess’ wound.

  “Quickly.” She gestured toward a rocky outcrop. The shallow crevasse it overhung could be easily concealed with the strategic repositioning of a couple of small bushes. As the queen helped her daughter inside, Nimue dragged over a couple of rocks and wedged greenery between them. The camouflage would withstand a cursory glance. She hoped.

  She crawled inside the makeshift shelter and made a quick examination of the gash on the princess’ leg. It looked clean enough but continued to seep blood. And the girl certainly needed something for the pain.

  What she really needed was to rest the leg, but since that was impossible, Nimue pulled her medicine bag over her head, dumped it on the ground and opened it. She could make a dressing for the wound to ensure it remained free of poison, and she could prepare a soothing tea with the last of her water to ease the pain.

  She took a calming breath. There was no use railing against fate. They would not catch up with Caratacus now so she might as well accept the fact she would be taking the queen and her daughter to the land of the Brigantes herself.

  “We will stay here until nightfall,” she told them. “The moon will guide our way.” She hadn’t anticipated an overnight journey but the wise Arianrhod, Goddess of the Moon and weaver of the fates, would ensure their safety.

  Swiftly, she prepared the pain-relieving tea. How shortsighted of her not to have filled her water skin before the battle began today.

  “I need to find a stream.”

  “You’re not leaving us?” The queen sounded incredulous.

  “I’ll be back directly.” Nimue glanced at the princess, to ensure she had finished the potion. At least now the girl’s discomfort would be dulled. She returned her attention to the queen. “Remain here. The Legions are advancing along another path.” At least that had been her impression when she’d seen them in the distance. Besides, Arianrhod wouldn’t have led them to this resting place if danger waited.

  Without waiting for further argument, she unsheathed her dagger and cautiously left the shelter. Arianrhod was watching over her, but it was always wise to take precautions.

  ***

  Eventually, Nimue found a stream and as she filled the water skin, her dagger lying across her knees, she looked into the distance, where majestic mountains dominated the far horizon. No sound of battle reached her. No stink of blood or churned earth to give a hint of the devastation that she’d witnessed earlier.

  She breathed in great lungfuls of the fresh mountain air, as if it might somehow cleanse the horror of her people’s defeat from her soul. They would rise again. They would rid the enemy from their land. And they would—

  An eerie chill trickled along her spine, causing the hair to rise on the back of her neck and arms. She leaped to her feet, dagger once again in her hand. But it wasn’t a lone legionary who had caught her so unawares. It was a mounted Roman officer, in a flowing scarlet cloak, with his shield in one hand and sword in the other.

  For a moment, all she could feel was the erratic thud of her heart in her ears, the uneven gasp of her breath in her throat. The sun dazzled her, glinting off the polished metal of his armor as he stared down at her, and obscurely, she noted his impressive biceps, his muscles flexing as he urged his horse forward.

  Flee. The command whispered in her mind, faint and insubstantial. The treacherous rocks on her right, the fast flowing stream at her back and the steep bank on the far side didn’t offer her a speedy escape. But somehow, she had to lead him farther away from the queen and princess. Except he had effectively trapped her by the edge of the stream.

  Yet even as the weight of her responsibility tormented her conscience, she couldn’t drag her fascinated gaze from the Roman. His face was hard, autocratic, unsmiling. The face of countless Romans, and yet like none she had ever seen before. His eyes were narrowed, his strong jaw shadowed. And the tip of his sword was a mere arm’s length from her face.

  “Surrender to the might of the Eagle,” he said in the ancient Celtic language of her people. His voice was deep, sensuous, and dark embers stirred as if she faced a brave warrior of Cymru instead of a cowardly barbarian of Rome. “And you shall remain unharmed.”

  Her palm was sweaty around her dagger and she tightened her grip before it slipped from her grasp. She might not have a chance against this Roman but she would never surrender to him. And she would never willingly give up her weapons, either.

  “I would sooner die fighting you,” she said in Latin, just to show him she was no ignorant native of a fractured land. Her mother had taught her the language well. “Than surrender my freedom to your filthy Emperor.”

&n
bsp; She had no freedom under Rome. As soon as they discovered she was a Druid, her life would be forfeit. Crucifixion was terrifying enough, but it was the torture she would doubtless endure beforehand that shriveled her soul.

  His black stallion whickered and pawed the ground, but the Roman didn’t break eye contact nor did his sword waver.

  “Brave words, little Celt.” Still he spoke in her language, and disbelief unfurled through her breast at the tone of his voice. Did he find her challenge amusing? “But I don’t fight women.”

  She ignored the threat of his sword and stepped forward, her dagger on clear display. He had no right to enter her land and then mock her prowess as a warrior. Just because she didn’t possess the brute strength of a full-grown male didn’t mean she lacked dexterity or speed. She glared up at him, wishing, obscurely, she could see the color of his eyes.

  “Why? Are you afraid I may unman you?” Why was she trying to raise his ire? Wouldn’t it make more sense to beg for freedom? Pretend to be a mere peasant, caught up in this revolt? Perhaps, then, he would allow her to escape without persecution?

  Even as the thought teased her mind, she knew the silver bracelets on her wrists, the torque at her throat and jewels in her ears plainly branded her as anything but a peasant.

  For one brief moment the corner of his lips quirked. Clearly he found her not only amusing, but highly entertaining.

  “I believe I’m more than man enough for you, Celt.” His voice was a seductive caress along the naked flesh of her arms.

  What little breath she retained in her lungs evaporated, scorched by the heat his words ignited in her blood. The danger of his sword, the reality of her dagger, faded, insubstantial as a distant dream. All she could see was this Roman as he looked down his aristocratic nose at her, as though she were a delectable slave he wanted to purchase.

  She failed to summon righteous fury at such a thought. She didn’t have the strength. Because she needed all her wits to fight the overpowering urge to drag him from his horse and discover for herself whether he was man enough for her.