Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Read online

  Tacitus would not stand by and allow Nimue—his property—to be used by any other.

  His commander narrowed his eyes, his piercing gaze burning into Tacitus’ mind. “I have no intention of harming her, tribune. If you’re too enamored with her to part with her yet, then give me your word on this. When you tire of her, I claim first right of purchase. Do you agree?”

  The image of his commander fucking Nimue turned his guts. He would never agree to such a thing. Because he had no intention of selling Nimue.

  But what if, when the time came for him to return to Rome, his commander refused to grant Nimue manumission? If she was free she could return to her people, wherever they were. But if she remained a slave how could he continue to protect her unless he took her home—and acquired her freedom there from an unbiased magistrate?

  Gods, how would Nimue survive as a freedwoman in Rome, unless she did agree to become his concubine?

  “Should I decide to sell Nimue,” Tacitus said, and the words corroded his soul; as if he was speaking of a prize mare his commander had taken a fancy to, “I give you my word you will be the first I approach.”

  His commander didn’t respond. After a fraught silence he finally jerked his head in acceptance and left. Tacitus expelled a frustrated breath, kicked the door shut and returned to his troublesome slave.

  She hadn’t moved from where he’d left her, but she was no longer rubbing her wounded shoulder. The look she gave him, however, hadn’t altered in the slightest.

  He resisted the urge to massage his pounding temples. Nothing had gone smoothly from the moment he’d found Nimue by the mountain stream. But at least this conversation with his commander, as much as it had irritated him, had clarified one thing. His commander now knew Tacitus would not stand by and allow any man to abuse Nimue, and he needed to make her understand.

  “There’s no need to fear. You’ll never belong to the commander. And while you’re under my protection, his honor will never allow him to touch you.”

  That should ease her mind. It had certainly eased his although nothing would induce him to admit such a thing aloud.

  “I don’t fear him.” As always she spoke to him in Latin, but for the first time he acknowledged the quality of her Latin. Her accent would always mar her as a foreigner but her grasp of his language was akin to that of a patrician.

  The haughty glance she gave him to accompany her words were at sharp odds with the garments she’d chosen to wear. He couldn’t fathom where she’d got them. Even his servants dressed better than this.

  “Why aren’t you wearing the gown I arranged for you?” He knew she was proud but she didn’t have to look like a beggar to prove her objection to her situation. He was fully aware of how she felt.

  So why in the name of all the gods had she refused his offer? If she hadn’t been so stubborn he could have acquired her manumission already, before his commander had taken it upon himself to meet with Nimue and decided he wanted her for himself.

  “I am wearing the gown you arranged for me.”

  Air hissed between his clenched teeth. Without another word he swung on his heel and marched from the room. His orders had been specific, but obviously not specific enough. It was clear that when it came to Nimue nothing was ever going to be straightforward.

  And again the infuriated thought pounded through his head.

  If Nimue was his official concubine, his servants would never have dared to offer her such coarse clothing.

  ***

  Nimue followed Tacitus to the door and watched him storm toward the kitchen and servants’ area. That he was displeased with her gown was clear. Why that somehow eased her wounded soul she couldn’t imagine. Because it didn’t change her status.

  Neither did the fact he had just assured her she was safe from his superior officer. Her pride demanded that Tacitus’ word meant nothing to her. In Rome’s eyes, she might be nothing but a slave but in her heart she was free. And no matter how brutally the enemy might use her she would survive and complete her mission.

  But the truth was sorely different. Because in reality the thought of being used by countless barbarous Romans to satisfy their carnal lusts terrified her. And she despised her terror. Was she not a warrior? Had she not participated in many ambushes and skirmishes with the enemy since they’d invaded her beloved Cymru?

  Yet it didn’t change the fundamental truth. Despite how she’d refused to be cowed by the older Roman, she had been very aware of the possibility that she could end up in his bed. Not because Tacitus would allow it. But because Tacitus could not prevent it.

  The realization that Tacitus could, indeed, prevent such a fate shouldn’t be cause for such deep relief or—Goddess forgive her—gratitude.

  What would she gain by continuing to delude herself? She had never given herself to Tacitus simply as a strategic measure. Could she have experienced such glorious orgasms with his superior officer? The image of attempting to seduce him made her feel ill.

  The questions swirled through her mind, tangled and edged with unformed alarm. She desperately needed to commune with Arianrhod. Not to ask her about her mission, but because her wise Goddess would soothe her battered soul and calm her turbulent thoughts. Without considering the consequences, she went to the front door and pulled it open. This time the legionary didn’t attempt to prevent her escape. She looked up and a deep, thick darkness shrouded the skies.

  Nimue frowned, but no glimmer of the silver moon could be seen. Of course it wasn’t unusual for clouds to obscure the Moon Goddess on her nighttime passage across the skies but still a shiver spidered along Nimue’s spine.

  Something was wrong. She could feel it in the spiritual essence of her being; the special place where the Great Goddess had entered and filled her young acolyte with adoration on that long-ago night of initiation. She closed her eyes, willed her thoughts to still, and opened her heart to her Goddess. Please forgive me. Please return. She hadn’t meant to lose the bluestone.

  “Nimue.” Tacitus voice punched through her senses and she swung around. He was glaring at her from the center of the room. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Would he understand if she told him the truth? He was only a heathen Roman, but even Romans acknowledged the power of foreign deities and Tacitus was not an ordinary Roman.

  “I was attempting to commune with my Goddess,” she said with as much dignity as she could. “I feel barren without her love to comfort me.”

  “Do you need to stand before an open door in order to do this?”

  No, she didn’t. But neither did she generally call upon her Goddess while inside a dwelling. “I usually worship her at night.” Although she generally worshipped her Goddess whenever she had a quiet moment, she felt something more was needed so he appreciated just how important Arianrhod was to her. “In a sacred glade.” Because Tacitus had not told her to, she turned and closed the door, since that was clearly his intention despite how he didn’t move toward her.

  “You’ll have to find alternative arrangements. There are no glades, sacred or otherwise, within the garrison.”

  “I won’t use your heathen temple.”

  He flashed a smile that appeared genuine, and she was once again enchanted. And a treacherous thought weaved through her mind.

  Why couldn’t he be a brave Celt warrior that she could, at least, dream of having a future with?

  “I’d never expect you to use our temple. I fear such sacrilege would bring plague and pestilence upon us all.”

  Before she’d met Tacitus she had never imagined a Roman possessed a sense of humor. Certainly not when it came to his barbaric gods.

  “You’re right to fear such retribution.” Although, in the back of her mind, the unnatural blackness of the night ate into her, she couldn’t help smiling back at him. “My gods can be mighty in their wrath.”

  He came toward her and held out his hand. Without thinking she took it. His strong fingers folded around hers, and even that small touch
caused delightful tremors to lick across her skin.

  “Perhaps I should offer sacrifice to your gods in appeasement.” His smoky voice curled through her senses.

  He wore the Roman tunic and cloak of her enemy, yet all she could see when she looked at him was the man who invaded her thoughts when he shouldn’t; the man whose touch she craved no matter how hard she tried to deny the truth.

  “Surely your Roman gods would strike you down for honoring mine.”

  “The gods of Rome are surprisingly tolerant of such indiscretions.”

  She didn’t want to be intrigued, and yet she was. “My gods would never countenance such a thing.”

  He tugged her forward and she went without resistance. Why pretend something they both knew to be false? Her refusal to climax the last time Tacitus had taken her had done nothing but cause her frustration. It hadn’t changed her status. Hadn’t changed the way she felt about him.

  She might as well enjoy the time they had together because when she left with the queen and princess, they would never see each other again.

  “Then whose gods are the more enlightened, Nimue?” He was laughing at her, mocking her beliefs, and yet fury didn’t rush through her veins or the desire to cut out his blasphemous tongue flood her senses.

  Fascination weaved through her instead. “That’s easy to say, Tacitus.” They entered his bedchamber and he kicked the door shut behind them, and the lamps cast a mystical glow across the room. “But in reality your gods would strike you down if you worshipped another.”

  He grasped her braid and then slowly slid his fist along the length of her hair, still damp from when she had washed it earlier. “Yet still I survive.”

  They no longer held hands. Tacitus pulled her braid over her shoulder and began to leisurely loosen her hair. It shouldn’t feel so seductive or arousing, and yet she was both seduced and aroused by his gentle touch. She struggled to recall what they had been talking about. Because what he was suggesting was truly—outrageous.

  “You do not worship the gods of Rome?” That couldn’t be so.

  “I do worship them.” He speared his fingers through her hair and arranged her damp curls over her shoulders. “And I also worship the gods of my maternal heritage.”

  She’d had no idea Romans considered their maternal heritage worth preserving. Not if it went against their despicable Emperor’s decree. “Your mother is not of Rome?”

  His fingers stilled in her hair and an odd expression crossed his face. As if her question had caused him pain.

  “She is of Rome. But she holds onto her old ways. I made the decision while still a child to embrace her gods to honor her.”

  Goddess, she didn’t want any more reason to find Tacitus irresistible but his confession undid her. She’d always been taught Romans thought little of women. That their wives and, by extension, their mothers were not given respect and honor.

  “In that regard at least,” she said, as he began to tug the rough fastenings at her breast, “your mother will be proud of you.”

  He laughed. “I assure you, my mother is excessively proud of my achievements, Nimue. Yet I intend to exceed her expectations, whatever the cost.” His voice hardened, as if reiterating a pledge he had made long ago.

  More intrigued than she had any right to be, Nimue stared into his hypnotic eyes.

  She wanted to ask him more of his mother. As Tacitus gently eased the rough gown over her injured shoulder, she realized that she wanted to know everything about his family, about his way of life in Rome.

  The questions burned her tongue, closed her throat. Tacitus wasn’t her lover. Not in the same way a warrior of Cymru would be. If he had been, she could ask whatever she wished. But how could she ask Tacitus such personal questions? It gave rise to a level of intimacy she wasn’t comfortable in embracing. No matter how dearly she wished to embrace it.

  To do so would reek of betrayal to her slain countrymen.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nimue’s gown slid to the floor, but Tacitus didn’t take his gaze from her face. But his eyes darkened and it became harder than ever to recall why she couldn’t simply indulge her desire to speak to him as she wished. Ask him whatever she pleased. Learn of his strange Roman ways that did not condemn its citizens for embracing foreign gods.

  She reached for the brooch that held his cloak in place, but he captured her wrists in his hand, preventing her. “Lie on the bed.”

  “Are you giving me orders, Roman?” There was no malice in her voice. She might hate her status and blame Tacitus for it, but she wasn’t stupid. The confrontation with his commandeering officer this night had clarified more than one question for her.

  Tacitus hadn’t lied when he’d said, “I did what I did in order to protect you.” She didn’t have to like it to appreciate its truth.

  “Yes.” He stepped back from her, removed his cloak and flung it across his casket. Dark flutters of lust kicked low in her pussy as she complied. His gaze raked over her, scorched her naked flesh. Instinctively she crossed her ankles, feeling suddenly vulnerable although she wasn’t sure why. Tacitus had seen her naked before.

  “Does this please you?’ The words tumbled from her mouth before she could prevent them, but although she knew she was defying her Goddess by enjoying this encounter, she couldn’t help herself. The raw need that flared in Tacitus’ eyes at her provocative remark was worth any soul-searching she would inevitably need to conduct later.

  “Spread your thighs so I might see you properly.”

  She had never done such a thing before. Her lovers before Tacitus—to her shame she had taken only two before this Roman—had never demanded she display herself so utterly. She would never admit to such extraordinary inexperience.

  Slowly she uncrossed her ankles and just as slowly parted her legs. Tacitus gazed at her, transfixed, and the knowledge that he found her so alluring intoxicated her senses.

  “What would you have me do now?” She scarcely recognized the sultry note in her voice. Never before had such a question passed her lips while with a lover. But Tacitus was different, in every way, and not just by virtue of his foreign status.

  His burning gaze licked over her body. How could just a look cause desire to curl through her core and make her nipples ache for his touch? She wanted his hands on her skin, his mouth on her breasts. But he made no move toward her, just continued to visually feast on her nakedness.

  She shifted restlessly. Her exposed pussy lips, spread for his satisfaction, throbbed with need. Could he see her swollen clit? The slick arousal that betrayed her hunger?

  Her ravenous gaze roved over his short military hair. It was nothing like that of any Celt warriors she had known. Until she’d met Tacitus, the thought of spearing her fingers through such short hair had never occurred to her. But now she longed to rake her nails over his head and feel the soft spikes of his hair graze her palm.

  His entire focus centered between her thighs. Quivers claimed her wet sheath and she rolled her hips, unable to stop herself. His aristocratic jaw tensed and she curled her fingers into a fist to stop herself from reaching for him.

  It’s only sex. She tried to convince herself but if that was all this was why did she care about his relationship with his mother? Why was she so deeply moved by the strength of his honor when confronted by his commanding officer?

  Her regard was wrong. All wrong, and yet deep in her soul it felt so inexplicably right. Tacitus was a Roman, the enemy of her people. But that, in itself, didn’t make him inherently an evil man.

  “Touch yourself.” His voice was hoarse and for one eternal moment their gazes clashed. “Show me what pleases you.”

  You please me. The words remained locked in her mind. She could never speak them aloud, for they were more than a confession of carnal pleasure. Her lust was supposed to have subsided once she’d had him. Yet his face and his body and the way he could make her writhe with mindless delight haunted her waking thoughts and invaded her lust-fueled dreams.


  She cradled her breasts, ignoring the twinge of discomfort from her shoulder. It meant nothing when Tacitus’ attention was riveted on her fingers, as she tweaked her aching nipples.

  Primal power surged through her blood and desire swirled low in her pussy. The Dance of the Moon Goddess, performed on the night when Arianrhod’s full magnificence glowed in the sky, was a sacred ritual. Only the Moon Goddess’ priestesses and acolytes were permitted to attend. Yet last night, consumed with fury, she had danced for Tacitus, the first man she had ever bestowed such honor upon.

  Tonight she would dance for him again. She didn’t have to be on her feet to worship her body the way her Goddess commanded. The thought of pleasuring herself while Tacitus watched tightened the need building between her thighs. He had watched her before, but then she had been consumed with fury and the desire to show him she could rise above the lust that thundered between them.

  But she couldn’t rise above it. Had no desire to rise above it. Because it was more than mere lust even if she could never accept it.

  She trailed her fingertips over her ribs, the dip of her waist and curve of her hips. In her mind she imagined the hypnotic thud of the drums and seductive notes of the flutes that the older Druids played while the dancers worshipped the power of the Moon Goddess. She imagined she was alone in the sacred grove, bathed in the silvery nighttime light and Tacitus, her Roman warrior, watched from the shadows of the trees.

  Her fingers slid between her parted thighs and caressed the folds of her sex. She saw Tacitus grit his jaw and knew he kept his distance only by rigid willpower. She would break his proud Roman will and have him on his knees, begging for her favor.

  “This pleases me.” She could scarcely push the words along her throat but it was worth the effort when Tacitus dragged his gaze from her exposed pussy and looked at her as if he was already clinging to the precipice. She stroked the soft inner lip of her sex then teased her swollen clit and sighed as pleasure spiraled through her wet channel.