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  She wanted to curl up and hide. But she couldn’t move because he held her so securely. There was no help for it. She would have to admit that she was protected.

  Except Gawain was not her husband. He had no rights over her body in the way Scipio had. There was no possibility that he would dispense harsh punishment for daring to do such a thing without his express permission. Yet the thought did not ease her mind, not when she had to explain such intimacies aloud.

  “Gawain.” Her voice sounded choked, and he appeared to find her response painful if the look on his face was anything to go by. Before she could squeeze another agonizing word from her throat he gave a heavy sigh.

  “Do not distress yourself, Antonia. I will speak to Carys. She’s a renowned healer and will know exactly what to give you.”

  Antonia stared at him, dumbstruck. She couldn’t fathom whether she was more shocked that Gawain was so concerned for her welfare, or the fact that he so casually knew—and had no problem with—Carys’ knowledge of such forbidden feminine things.

  “Antonia.” There was an edge in his voice now. “Everything will be all right. Trust me on this.”

  “There is no need.” The words tumbled from her lips and she studiously avoided eye contact. “Elpis is well versed in such matters. There is no danger that your seed will plant within me.”

  His silence unnerved her further and she risked glancing up. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but it certainly hadn’t been the satisfied smile that he bestowed her way.

  “You were that sure of having me then, my lady?”

  He was jesting with her? After the conversation they had just exchanged? She was quite sure Scipio would have beaten her senseless had he ever discovered she had taken precautions against conceiving another of his children.

  Gawain was not Scipio. She knew this, of course. But the differences between them continued to astonish her. She attempted to gather her scattered thoughts.

  “I simply wanted to be prepared for any possibility.”

  “Your foresight is admirable.”

  Amusement weaved through his words and he played with her hair, winding curls around his fingers. The lingering strands of embarrassment drifted into oblivion and she smiled back at him, warmth encasing her heart. “I am glad you think so.”

  She should rise, call for Elpis, prepare to leave. Instead, she once again cuddled into him, relishing the way he held her tight as though he had no immediate thoughts of leaving either.

  Idly she resumed tracing her finger over the elaborate engravings on his silver torque. Did the images mean something or were they—

  Shock stabbed through her as she finally recognized what she was looking at. Tiny wings and twin serpents intertwined around a rod. Before she could think better of it the words tumbled from her lips.

  “Why do you have the images of Mercury on your torque, Gawain?”

  He raised his head and gave her a pained look. “He is not Mercury, Antonia. He is Lugus, an ancient Celtic god. Why would I place your heathen god around my throat?”

  The same iconography—the wings and serpents—were repeated in his intricate earring. They were not indecipherable at all. The images, so similar to Mercury’s and yet, now that she studied them closely, possessed a wilder, more barbaric design, enhanced the danger of this illicit affair and renewed desire stirred between her thighs. Gawain was still inside her. Goddess, she loved having him inside her.

  She leaned closer and nibbled his jaw, tasting his flesh and grazing her lips against his light stubble.

  “Do not be offended.” She didn’t think he was, but also did not want him to think she made light of his own beliefs. “My father has a special affinity with Mercury, so I’m very familiar with his images.”

  He grunted. “Perhaps it is Lugus your father worships.”

  Antonia laughed at him. Gawain resisted the urge to grin back at her. The god Lugus, finder of paths, a teacher and historian, had chosen him as acolyte while Gawain was a child. He could still recall his sense of pride and awe when his father had passed down the treasured torque when Gawain had celebrated his thirteenth winter. The heirloom had been passed from father to son for generations and Gawain had always believed that one day he would continue the unbroken chain.

  But that was before the Romans had invaded. Before the woman he had once believed was destined to be his wife had turned her back on him.

  Before Lugus had retreated into impenetrable shadows and his faith in his gods had faltered.

  Yet he kept the torque around his throat. A reminder, perhaps, of when he had imagined his life’s path was preordained. A link back in time to his ancestors. To his father.

  “No.” Antonia folded her arms across his chest to prop herself up. “My father is a wonderful man but he does not easily embrace the gods of other cultures.”

  “Rome does not embrace.” He wasn’t sure why this conversation irritated him. It was not as if he felt especially predisposed to defend his own abandoned gods with Antonia. “Rome swallows and consumes.”

  “Oh.” Antonia blinked and an enchanting blush highlighted her cheeks. He knew he was staring, but could not help himself. “Rome does not always swallow, Gawain.”

  For a moment, he didn’t comprehend her meaning, but her blush deepened, giving her an irresistible air of seductive innocence. A snort of laughter escaped his throat and banished the hovering black mood as he finally understood.

  “I would not protest if you changed your mind, Antonia.” He trailed his finger along her heated face and an odd notion stabbed through his brain. He knew Antonia had deliberately twisted his words into a personal, sexual implication but he hadn’t intended to offend her with his barbed remark. “You do know I don’t blame you for any of your countrymen’s actions, don’t you?”

  He had never felt the need to say such a thing before when he had been with a Roman woman. He might not personally blame them, but they were still the enemy, and he had no compunction in using his enemy.

  But he did not consider Antonia his enemy. He had never wanted to fuck her simply for information he might glean, because she had no information. And while that had always been the truth, the added knowledge that she did not flit from lover to lover to add illicit excitement into her existence stirred a strange element of protectiveness deep in his chest.

  She was Roman, but he would not callously wound her with his views.

  “Of course,” she whispered, but there was an underlying thread of sadness, as though she knew, as well as him, that their opposing cultures would always stand between them.

  The knowledge hovered, like an insistent wasp. Why did it matter? They would not be together long enough for such a thing to matter. In fact, why was he still lying here, holding her in his arms? He had leads to follow up, elusive contacts to track down. If other Druids were, indeed, in Camulodunon, he intended to discover them.

  But it felt too good holding Antonia in his arms.

  Eventually it was she who stirred, reluctance showing in every move, and he pulled on his clothes before she summoned Elpis to assist her.

  Once again, Gawain leaned against the door of the tavern, but this time he watched as Antonia walked away from him. She’d covered her head with her slave’s cloak but nothing could disguise the fact she was a noblewoman. It wasn’t simply the quality of her gown beneath the cloak. It was inherent in her bearing.

  With a half-smile he followed at a discreet distance. He would ensure she reached the bathhouse in safety and only then would he be on his way.

  As she entered the main square, he decided he would catch up with her. It would not ruin her reputation to be seen with him in such a public place, not when she was acquainted with his kin, Carys. But before he could put his plan in action, she was accosted by a Roman patrician in purple striped toga and flowing cloak.

  What the fuck? Gawain sank back into the shadows of the side alley. It was not just any patrician. It was the one who had been speaking to Maximus the pre
vious day.

  He watched as the Roman took Antonia’s hand in a far too familiar manner. It was obvious they were acquainted and equally obvious that the Roman believed he had the right to not only kiss Antonia’s hand but then take her arm in a blatantly possessive way.

  What was the Roman saying to her? His head was inclined toward her and he appeared to be admonishing her. Because he had witnessed her leave a less salubrious quarter of town? Who did he think he was?

  Irritation simmered. Not merely because of the Roman’s behavior but because, deep in his gut, a sliver of guilt stirred. He should be the one escorting Antonia back to the bathhouse. He had only agreed to this compromise after she had reminded him that if her reputation was called into question her father would never let her out of his sight again.

  He was further irked by the knowledge that had the Roman seen Gawain by Antonia’s side as they left the alley her reputation would, most surely, now be in tatters.

  The guilt, irritation and rising unease at his reaction to this situation smoldered through his blood. Before the invasion, he had enjoyed many Celtic lovers from the noble and Druid ranks. The woman he’d loved had been a powerful Druid. But even with her—especially with her—he had never been consumed by this unnerving imperative to protect them from danger both seen and unknown.

  As a warrior and member of the elite, he would have fought to the death to save their lives. They were his people. His fellow Druids would have done the same for him.

  But Antonia was not a Celt and she certainly wasn’t a warrior. She would no sooner know how to wield a weapon than she would know how to assert her rights against her cursed empire and all it stood for.

  Was that why he couldn’t shift this insidious mantle of responsibility that seeped through his chest whenever he thought of her vulnerability? But if that was the case why hadn’t he felt this way with his Celtic lovers who had chosen not to follow the warrior path?

  They had reached the bathhouse. The Roman finally left her, stalking off toward the basilica, and Gawain tore his malignant glare from the man’s retreating back to refocus on Antonia.

  She stood beside a fluted column and was looking across the square at him. She caught his gaze, gave a barely perceptible shrug that spoke volumes of her opinion toward the Roman, and then smiled at him.

  The knot in his gut eased. He made no response but waited until she disappeared inside the building before finally turning away.

  Now he could concentrate on hunting down elusive Druids.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gawain strolled with apparent nonchalance down the filthy back street. Thieves and cutthroats and worn-out whores infested this part of Camulodunon, a dank underbelly of the colonia into which no respectable Roman would dare venture.

  For five days, he’d followed his instincts, seeking answers from those who did not even realize they were being questioned. He’d pieced together random snatches of information, overheard conversations and seemingly unconnected snippets of gossip and speculation.

  It was ironic to think that all the time he had been gathering information on the mood of the local tribes on rebellion, fellow Druids had been infiltrating the colonia under his very nose.

  A great hulk of a man emerged from the shadows and Gawain tensed, ready to draw his dagger in an instant. The other man made no threatening gesture but his stance was not welcoming. But despite the rough clothing and unkempt beard of the silent man, an aura of power radiated from him.

  Anticipation surged through Gawain’s blood. He was certain he had found the one he’d been seeking but he had no intention of assuming anything. He took another step forward and didn’t miss how the man’s fingers wound around his dagger in readiness. They were close enough to kill each other. But they were also close enough so that their words could not easily be overheard.

  “By the benevolence of Annwyn, greetings.” It was a formal, rarely used welcome between chieftains in Cymru. But Gawain spoke the words in the tongue of the ancients, the sacred language of the gods that only Druids understood.

  The other man did not show by a flicker as to whether Gawain’s words made sense or not. For long moments they continued to maintain eye contact, senses alert. No one approached or called out to them.

  They might have been alone in the alley, in the way all noise of life had stilled.

  Finally the other man stirred. “By the gods of my ancestors, welcome.” He also spoke in the language of the ancients and exhilaration pumped through Gawain’s veins. He and Carys were not alone in Camulodunon. “My name is Rhys,” the Druid said in their own tongue. The language of the gods was not for everyday conversation, after all.

  “Gawain. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  Rhys indicated Gawain should accompany him and they made their way along the alley. “I’ve been aware of your presence since the day you first entered Camulodunon,” Rhys said and Gawain shot him a look of disbelief.

  “Why didn’t you make contact?”

  Rhys turned a corner and they entered a small square with a tired-looking market. Nothing like the prosperous market that graced the forum several times a week.

  “You lodge with the tribune and his wife.”

  Fuck. “The tribune’s wife is from Cymru. We are kin by virtue of our clan. I will protect the princess and her daughter with my life.” It wasn’t so much a threat as an explanation and when Rhys gave a brief nod Gawain knew that he had told the older man nothing that he didn’t already know.

  Gawain could only hope that whatever other information Rhys had discovered didn’t include the fact that Carys was also a Druid. Not that she wanted to deny her heritage. But because the fewer people who knew, the safer she was.

  “You’ve been attempting to stir a rebellion here.” Rhys shot him a glance Gawain couldn’t decipher. “I wanted to see how far you were willing to go. Two turns of the wheel ago, I also came to Camulodunon with the same desire. But, as you have discovered, the time is not yet ripe.”

  Rhys had been in the colonia since Gawain and the rest of his clan had retreated to the Isle of Mon? What the fuck had he been doing all this time?

  His thoughts must have shown on his face as Rhys gave him a mirthless smile. “There’s more than one way to undermine an enemy, Gawain.”

  It was late when he returned to the villa. Although both Carys and Maximus had offered him a room inside for his personal use, he preferred to sleep in one of the outlying buildings. Not that Maximus considered them buildings. Huts, he’d called them. Likely built years ago by locals, who had long since been evicted when the first wave of invaders had arrived. But it suited Gawain. Made him feel less constricted than being enclosed within a Roman constructed dwelling.

  He kicked off his leather shoes, lay on the narrow, straw pallet that served as his bed and linked his fingers behind his head. Rhys had interrogated him although Gawain couldn’t be sure that he had told the older Druid anything he hadn’t already known. When Rhys finally disclosed the extent of the underground network of Druids that inhabited Camulodunon, Gawain hadn’t been able to disguise his shock.

  Even now, hours later, his mind still reeled. Why hadn’t he been aware of their presence? Why hadn’t any of them approached him? It certainly hadn’t taken Rhys long to discover what Gawain really was.

  But Gawain knew why their presence had eluded his senses. It was because he hadn’t been looking for fellow Druids in Camulodunon. Not once had he sought guidance from any god but Lugus. He’d been so wrapped up in the failure of his mission with Caratacus and his own lucky escape from certain death at the hands of the Brigantes that the possibility had never seriously entered his head.

  And if it had, he certainly wouldn’t have imagined them hiding with the dregs of humanity with no firm battle plan in mind.

  There was strength in numbers. On his own, there was little he could do to change attitudes and will. But he was no longer alone. They could destabilize the enemy from within. Disrupt their love of order,
destroy their cursed administration center. Carys would be safe. For her own reasons, she was determined that Maximus would return to Rome and Gawain would ensure she’d left Britain before any uprising.

  Antonia’s image pierced his brain and his thoughts slammed to a halt. Antonia. He gritted his jaw. He would ensure Antonia’s safety. She would not be harmed.

  But left to Rhys, there would be no uprising at all. His plans to undermine the mighty Roman Empire consisted of merely surviving. Of teaching their ways to those who could be trusted. Of ensuring their gods were not forgotten and their culture not erased.

  It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly fucking enough.

  “Gawain?” Carys’ voice at the door jerked him brutally back to the present. She pushed open the door without waiting for an invitation. “Can I come in?”

  He remained prone on the pallet. “Is something wrong?”

  In the fading light of day, Carys looked nothing like the Roman persona she perfected in public. How would she fare in Rome when she would need to keep up that façade without respite?

  “No.” Carys sat at the end of his pallet and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Although I doubt you’ll take kindly to what I’m about to say.”

  “Why? Have you changed your mind about Antonia’s visits here?” Since their assignation in the tavern, Antonia had met him at Carys’ three times and the two women had struck up a tentative friendship. At least, it was tentative from Antonia’s end. Carys, as faithful as ever to the obscure dictates of her goddess, had embraced Antonia as though she were a long-lost friend.

  As though she were attempting to fill the gap in her heart left by her childhood friend, Morwyn.

  He refused to think of Morwyn. The woman who had never loved him, never pretended to love him, yet whom he had fallen for, just the same.

  “Of course not.” Carys sounded dismissive of his concern. He heaved himself upright and leaned against a timber post.