Forbidden Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Epilogue

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2010 by Christina Phillips.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

  without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in

  violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  HEAT and the HEAT design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Heat trade paperback edition / September 2010

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Phillips, Christina, (date)

  Forbidden / Christina Phillips.—Heat trade pbk. ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-44292-0

  I. Title.

  PS3616.H45455F67 2010

  813’.6—dc22

  2010012983

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Mark.

  Forever.

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a huge debt of thanks to my fabulous critique partners—Amanda Ashby, Sara Hantz and Pat Posner—for their support and encouragement over the years. Even when I came close to giving up on myself, they never did, and for that they deserve mountains of chocolate, rivers of wine and a juicy pineapple. You girls keep me sane.

  To my incredible agent, Emmanuelle Alspaugh, who loved Carys and Maximus and their forbidden love right from the start. Thank you for always believing, and for helping to turn my dreams into reality.

  Many thanks to everyone at Berkley who has worked so hard on Forbidden, especially my editor, the lovely Kate Seaver; it’s a pleasure to work with you. Thank you for asking the hard questions! And to Katherine Pelz for her patience in answering mine!

  To Gordon Crabb and the Berkley art department—thank you for creating such a beautiful cover. Every time I look at it, I fall a little more in love!

  For the wonderful friends I’ve made through the Romance Writers of Australia, Romance Writers of New Zealand and the online romance community—your support is invaluable and very much appreciated.

  And, as always, to my husband Mark and my children, Victoria, Charlotte and Oliver—who was very excited at the thought of me writing a Roman historical until he found out it was also going to be a romance. Sorry about that!

  Author’s Note

  It was likely the Romans who called the ancient peoples of Europe and Britain Celts. They would have called themselves by their own tribal names.

  For clarity, I have taken the liberty of using the term “Celt” in reference to the ancient tribal peoples of Cymru as a whole.

  Chapter One

  Carys held her breath as her secret lover entered the sparkling waterfall, buried deep within the leafy shadows of the forest.

  She pressed her fingers against the rough bark of the tree, and inched a little farther along the branch where she lay hidden from his sight.

  From this angle she had a perfect view of his magnificent naked body. Even from this distance she could see the numerous battle scars that marred his tawny skin, but they marked him as a warrior. A hero who faced death without reservation and emerged triumphant.

  He was the enemy of her people. And yet she couldn’t tear her fascinated gaze from him.

  They had never met. They would never meet. Such a catastrophe didn’t bear thinking about. Yet she thought of this tough, brutal warrior constantly. Ever since she had first stumbled across his irregular bathing ritual three moons ago.

  He turned within the shimmering rainbows of the waterfall, fingers raking through his short black hair. Carys released her breath in a shaky gasp and her body moved restlessly against her perilous ledge. The men of Cymru had long, flowing hair. How would it feel to touch such severely cropped hair? Sharp, like the points of reeds? Or—not? She couldn’t imagine. And yet she imagined endlessly.

  His hands massaged his broad shoulders, and Carys’s fingers dug into woody crevices as she fantasized rubbing her own fingers over his knotted muscles. It had been fifteen days since he had last been to the waterfall. She knew because she had waited here, each morning.

  But the wait had been worth it, and her imagination hadn’t enhanced his powerful muscles, his commanding height or his dark, exotic beauty. Her breath shortened as her heart rate accelerated, and her thighs tightened around the branch in reaction.

  Slowly his hands slid over wet skin, fingers trailing through the sprinkling of dark hair that dusted his impressive chest. Lightning flickered in the pit of her stomach, and instinctively she rubbed her pussy against the abrasive bark.

  Her only lover, whose possessive grip she had finally escaped three years ago, possessed no body hair aside from on his head. How would it feel to press against a masculine form so unlike any she had previously seen?

  The tip of her tongue slid over her lips a
s her secret lover sluiced water over his rigid stomach. And then his fingers curled around his semi-aroused cock.

  Carys stretched to the very edge of her branch, risking safety and the threat of discovery, but temptation was too great. She had seen naked men without number in her life, knew how insanely proud males were of their treasures, but she had never been impressed by that part of the human body before.

  Not even her ex-lover’s. Especially not her ex-lover’s. And yet this man’s cock, this man who would murder her without compunction if he knew who she was, held fascination beyond reason.

  His fingers slid over his burgeoning penis, squeezing the dark head, and without conscious thought Carys’s hand slipped between her thighs. Sweet Cerridwen, she had never wanted a man so much as she wanted this one. But she knew better than to ask her goddess to intervene, for intervention would cause untold suffering to her people.

  But still, she wanted this man. With all that she was.

  Even through the soft wool of her gown, her throbbing clit reacted instantly to the pressure of her finger. She sighed, and her eyelashes flickered as her hips ground against her finger, against the roughness of the tree. She imagined her Roman conqueror touching her there, spearing his finger into her wet slit, and tremors burned through her womb, tightening her muscles, spiraling through her innermost channel.

  She rubbed her breasts, heavy with arousal, against the bark, and imagined his hands cupped her. Squeezed her. Pinched her nipples between his calloused fingers. Rough, battle-forged fingers. How different would they feel from the smooth hands of her previous lover?

  She imagined him ripping her gown from her body, until she was naked before him. Could feel the heat of him as he loomed over her. See his eyes—she longed to see the color of his eyes—and if she lifted her hand, she could run her fingers through his short, military hair.

  Her heart pummeled against her crushed ribs, blood pounded against her throbbing temples, and her wet clit ached for release against her massaging finger.

  He would spread her legs. And then surge into her with his magnificent, massive cock, and she would come, as the great goddess decreed, until the stars in the heavens cascaded through her sated soul, leaving a shimmering waterfall of rainbow lights forevermore.

  Hot, liquid heat flooded her pussy, and she bit down hard on her lower lip to stop from crying out. Her fantasy lover satisfied her in ways she had barely before envisaged. As her heart gradually eased its frantic beat and her breath slowed, she knew it was best he remained merely a fantasy. Reality could never compare to the joy she experienced in his arms, while safely cocooned within her mind. In her fantasy, she could orgasm. In reality, with a man, she never could.

  She became aware of the sharp edges of the bark scratching her face and struggled to raise her head. A stab of disappointment, as sharp as a Druid’s blade, sliced through her heart.

  Her secret lover had vanished from beneath the waterfall.

  She inched back along the branch until she was once again safely against the trunk of the tree. It was of no matter. Perhaps he would bathe again tomorrow, and she would be here waiting for him. Or perhaps she would have to wait another moon. There was no method to his visits as far as she could discern, and for all she knew he might never pass this way again. But she didn’t want to think about that.

  She was simply going to enjoy every illicit moment she could.

  Carefully she climbed back to the ground, her limbs still shaky and filled with remnants of desire. But as her feet touched the leaf-strewn ground, trepidation raced along her spine, crawled across the back of her neck, and sent shivers coursing along her arms.

  She was no longer alone.

  The trepidation mutated into stark terror. She had trespassed into occupied territory, and the enemy had found her. Stealthily she wrapped her fingers around the dagger strapped to her waist.

  She might be imagining it. But she wasn’t an acolyte of the wise goddess Cerridwen for nothing. The Roman stood behind her, and was moments from slaughtering her.

  And it was her own fault for not being more careful.

  But she wouldn’t show any fear. Wouldn’t divulge any information, no matter how he tortured her. And besides, it was always possible her dagger would pierce his corrupt heart with her first thrust. She knew she wouldn’t be given the chance of a second.

  She drew in a breath—her last?—gathered her fleeing courage, and turned to face the conqueror.

  Tiberius Valerius Maximus stopped dead in his tracks as the woman slowly turned toward him. The adrenaline pumping through him in anticipation of the chase spiked into raw sexual energy, as he stared at the one who had been spying on him for Mars knew how long.

  Pure reflex kept his gladius raised, and his soldier’s senses remained alert for others hidden among the trees. But his gut told him she was alone. Vulnerable. At his mercy.

  He took a step toward her, emerging from the shadows into the dappled sunlight. He expected her to flee, but she remained where she was, looking directly at him as if she had every right to be there and he, none.

  Slowly he lowered his gladius. He’d not imagined the spy would be so small or slender or without apparent means of defense. He flicked a glance at the gem-encrusted dagger she clutched to her side, and dismissed it. She possessed neither the strength nor ability to injure him.

  Her pale lemon gown, with its square neckline, skimmed the tops of her breasts and hugged her tiny waist before falling in soft folds to just below her knee. The sunlight bathed her in a radiant glow, but her hair needed no such enhancement. Loosely pulled back from her face, it was braided into a long golden plait that trailed over her shoulder to her waist.

  He took another step, barely aware he did so. Many of the local girls tied their hair in such a fashion. But threaded through this golden rope were tiny clusters of amethyst and jade, their polished edges glittering, momentarily dazzling him.

  And then she moved from the sunlight into the shade. But not away from him. Toward him. And for the first time he saw her face.

  For one eternal heartbeat he remained transfixed by her delicate, ethereal beauty. Golden tendrils escaped her braid and caressed her pale cheeks, yet not a hint of fear emanated.

  Her serenity unnerved him. And then he looked into her wide, beautiful eyes, and primal panic whipped through him, knotting his guts and tightening his muscles. Instinctively he raised his gladius, but still he couldn’t tear his gaze from her strange, unnatural eyes. One amethyst, one jade. Was she one of the Celts’ barbaric goddesses, come to take vengeance for her people?

  She flinched. Barely discernible, but his trained eye saw. Saw how she tried to hide her reaction. Saw, suddenly, the uneven rise and fall of her breasts beneath her woolen gown, a certain sign that despite the calm she displayed, in truth she feared him.

  He didn’t want her to fear him. He was a soldier, not a tyrant. Her conqueror and master, but he didn’t need another slave.

  With deliberation he once again lowered his gladius, pressed its tip against his thigh. Bizarrely, relief streaked through him at his foresight in wrapping a length of linen around his waist before hunting the spy. He cared not who saw his body, but conversely didn’t want her to see how much she affected him.

  And she did affect him. Despite his early-morning ritual of self-gratification, already another erection caused discomfort. He sucked in a deep breath and struggled to articulate the Celtic tongue.

  “I mean you no harm.”

  Her glance flashed to his gladius, then back to him. He didn’t need an oracle to decipher that response. Without conscious thought he took another step toward her. “What’s your name?”

  She pressed her lips together and tilted her head very slightly.

  Maximus gave a reluctant smile. Her courage was strangely fascinating, since she had to know he could snap her slender neck with one hand if he so desired.

  “So you’re giving me the silent treatment?” He lapsed into the familiarity of
his own language. “That makes a change, a beautiful woman holding her tongue.”

  Again she tilted her head and this time he laughed at the haughty glare she directed his way. “Although I’m sure there are plenty of things you’d like to say to me, if only we could understand each other.” With his free hand he reached out and gently brushed a strand of golden hair from her face. The silk of her hair and the unexpected heat from her soft skin sent molten darts of animal lust from the tips of his fingers directly to his throbbing cock.

  Gods. His fingers stilled against her face. She didn’t try to escape. His breath burned his lungs, closed his windpipe. Why didn’t she try to escape?

  “You haven’t been seen in any of the villages.” He’d seen countless girls and women as the legionaries had vanquished one primitive village after another. Had even sampled a few of the prettiest himself, those who were willing to fraternize with their enemy.

  Had this golden-haired vision been found, she would have been brought to him personally. The best prizes always were.

  “You’re no peasant.” His gaze raked over her, only now recognizing the fine weave to the woolen gown, the intricate, vibrant embroidery that decorated its neckline, sleeves and hem. And the semiprecious jewels threaded through her hair were repeated in her long earrings that brushed her shoulders, the delicate necklace that clasped the base of her throat and the bracelets around her fragile-looking wrists.

  Another step and he was close enough to breathe in her evocative scent of spring flowers and summer breezes. A clean, pure scent, one infinitely elevated from the stink of the masses or the claw of poverty. Or the mindless slaughter of the blood-soaked quagmires.

  “Where do you come from?” He used her language although he didn’t expect her to answer. This girl, whose air of fragility reminded him of a wood nymph, was from the chieftain class. Of that much he was certain. He trailed his knuckles across her cheek and gently grasped her jaw between thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him although she had shown no sign of dropping her gaze. “Where is your father’s settlement?”