Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Read online

  He weighed the pouch in the palm of his hand and gave her a smile that tugged at her heart. She didn’t bother trying to deny it. There was no need. She liked this Roman, despite all the reasons why she shouldn’t. But that fact wouldn’t blind her to the truth or what she needed to accomplish.

  “Can I trust you not to poison me in my sleep?”

  She smiled back. She couldn’t help herself and again she had to forcibly remember that he was her enemy. “Yes. Why do you so readily assume I wish to kill you? I have no desire to be handed over to your commanding officer for committing such a crime.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.” He placed the pouch on her thigh. “It would be an ignoble end, even for me.”

  “Even for you?” His enigmatic comment intrigued her more than the contents of the pouch and she stared at him, trying and failing not to become ensnared by his eyes or his smile or—everything about him. “A mighty warrior from Rome?” Contempt edged her words but it was faint, insubstantial. Because her contempt was for Rome, not for this warrior even though she knew, logically, the two were intrinsically entwined.

  “Is that how you see me, Nimue?” Far from appearing insulted by her barbed words he looked anything but. “A mighty warrior from Rome?”

  Goddess, he was laughing at her again. Did all Romans possess this sense of irreverence, or was it peculiar to Tacitus?

  Or was it simply something corrupt within her blood that found him so irresistible?

  That possibility stung, but not as much as it should. She ignored it, as she had ignored so many things since she’d been captured. There would be time enough later, after she’d completed her mission, to repent of such oversights.

  “What else can you be?” And then, although she knew she shouldn’t continue this conversation because of its inherent dangers, she couldn’t stop herself. “What do you see when you look at me, Tacitus?”

  A lazy smile tilted his lips as he proceeded to scrutinize her from her tangled hair to her bare toes. She told herself it was not the scrutiny of a master to his slave and convinced herself with little difficulty. How easily she could delude herself when it came to Tacitus.

  “I see a beautiful woman who looks in sore need of nourishment.”

  What else had she expected? That he would look beyond his Roman prejudices and see her for who she truly was?

  She didn’t want him to see her as she truly was. If he ever did, it would be her death sentence. Yet her emotions warred within her breast, and she couldn’t fathom what it was she really wanted.

  For Tacitus to acknowledge her warrior strength? When she had just admitted that her injury still pained her? No wonder he thought she was a weak woman, akin to the milk-blooded Roman females.

  Yet that was exactly what she wanted him to believe. The Gaul had told her it was her only weapon, and the longer she remained under Roman rule the more she accepted its truth. No matter how it jarred her senses.

  Except she didn’t want Tacitus to believe that of her. She didn’t want to lie to him, even by omission. Yet if she didn’t stop such treacherous thoughts from polluting her mind then how could she hope to summon the conditions necessary in order to launch her rescue?

  “I am hungry.” It was the truth but it sounded like a confession of weakness. She glared at the pouch on her thigh so Tacitus couldn’t see the confusion in her eyes. “Tacitus, am I permitted to leave your quarters during the day?”

  When he didn’t answer straightaway she looked up at him, and caught a bemused expression on his face. As if he couldn’t understand her sudden shift in conversation.

  She should have been more subtle. Stoked his ego, bolstered his pride and then made her request when he was thoroughly convinced she was as harmless and incapable as he clearly suspected she might be.

  But she couldn’t do it. It was one thing to gain his trust so she achieved freedom of movement. But it was, she had discovered, quite another to forcibly subdue her nature in order to deliberately misdirect him.

  “Why do you want to leave my quarters?”

  So I can discover where you’re keeping the Briton queen and princess. It was the overriding truth, but it wasn’t the only reason. And while she couldn’t tell Tacitus her primary motivation, she could share her other reasons without betraying her loyalty.

  “I’m not used to—” She hesitated, suddenly unsure whether she wanted to share this particular confession. But Tacitus remained silent, remained focused on her, and in the end what did it matter what she confessed if it achieved her aim? “Being confined inside for such extended lengths of time.”

  “I fear my quarters don’t extend to a private courtyard for your use.” For some reason that appeared to irk him, as if the lack of a courtyard—whatever that might be—reflected badly on him. “I didn’t forget my promise to take you for a walk this evening, Nimue. But I was unavoidably detained.”

  She should be offended at the way he assumed she needed to be taken for a walk. But his obvious irritation at the fact he had broken his word charmed her. Not least because he had actually recalled making such a promise.

  “I wasn’t suggesting you’d broken your word.” How odd she could say such a thing to him and mean it. “But I’m used to being active all day. I fear I may lose my mind if all I see all day are these walls and ceiling pressing down on me.”

  The words were out before she could prevent them and she stared at him, appalled at how easily she had let him see her vulnerability. Yet it was true. No matter how magnificent Tacitus’ quarters were—and she had to admit, the intricately patterned stonework floors and astonishing proportions of the rooms were like nothing she had ever imagined before—they still confined her.

  His frown intensified. “Active?” he repeated, sounding mystified. It was obvious he couldn’t imagine what she might mean. “Surely you had servants and slaves of your own, Nimue, to undertake menial tasks outside?”

  Of course she had—before the invasion. But everything had changed with the coming of the Romans.

  She opened her mouth to explain, and then realized to do so would be a grave mistake. Because how could she tell him that she had spent most days engaged in memorizing the sacred Druidic knowledge of the ages?

  As an acolyte just over halfway through her training she had also been expected to help their people whenever necessary. Her skills as a healer and special affinity with the Moon Goddess had quickly spread among the women who had sought her advice and wisdom on the complexities of their feminine cycles and fertility.

  She couldn’t tell Tacitus the whole truth. But she could share…a little.

  “I would comfort my people in need,” she said with quiet dignity. “And commune with my Goddess. All I ask is that I’m permitted to leave your quarters during the day.”

  “And am I to believe you wouldn’t attempt to run away at the first opportunity?”

  She had no intention of running away like a common thief. When the time was right, she would execute her carefully planned escape. But first she had to find the queen.

  “You have my word I won’t run away at the first opportunity.” It wasn’t a lie, so why did it feel like one? Tacitus should phrase his questions more carefully. But thank her Goddess that he did not. “Where would I go, Tacitus?”

  He cradled her face in his hand and his gaze touched her soul. “You could go nowhere, Nimue.” There was an odd note of regret in his voice. “By Roman law you would be brought back to me in chains, and gods know that’s not what I want. I’ll arrange for my seamstress to accompany you on a daily walk, on condition you don’t leave the garrison and that you’re back before I return from duty. Do you agree?”

  She bristled at the thought of one of his insufferable servants accompanying her, but at least she had negotiated a measure of freedom. She would find a way to discover the information she required without raising the suspicion of her spy.

  “I do,” she said, and when Tacitus leaned toward her and kissed the tip of her nose it was
hard to remember why there were so many things she had to keep secret from him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  By the third day the seamstress, a Roman woman well into middle age and not conversant with the Celtic tongue, had mellowed sufficiently to allow Nimue to explore the markets by herself, so long as she remained within visual contact. It was a vast improvement on the first morn when the woman had shown her disapproval with her folded arms, pursed lips and dagger-like glares.

  Clearly she believed the upstart slave would be troublesome and autocratic, and so Nimue had conversed with her in Latin, adjusted her stride to the woman’s slower pace and consulted her on the purchase of lengths of fine wool.

  Nimue wasn’t sure why she was compelled to barter two of her bracelets for the wool. Tacitus’ servants had presented her with more than sufficient clothing—even if the two gowns were far too Roman for her liking—and yet the need had been insistent and so she had succumbed.

  When they had returned to Tacitus’ quarters on that first day, Nimue had further charmed the seamstress by requesting her wisdom on the best methods of converting the wool into serviceable over-gowns. Not that Nimue was incapable of such tasks herself yet, once again, she had felt compelled to ask for assistance. And this morn, as she wandered unchaperoned among the market stalls, she understood why.

  It had been to gain the other woman’s trust.

  Surely her Goddess worked in the most wondrous of ways. For such a tactic would never have occurred to Nimue by herself, of that she was certain.

  Now when she conversed with stallholders, she could direct the conversation how she wished. She had a good idea of the structure of the interior of the fortification, and knew where the officers’ and legionaries’ quarters were, where the healer practiced his arts and the location of the heathen sacrificial altars. She had yet to discover where captives were held.

  What she had discovered, though, was that the fortification was not closed to those who lived in the surrounding settlement. There was a freedom of movement she found astonishing and while only part of the fortification was open to the general populace that was more than she’d anticipated. She was certain that, somehow, it would aid in her plans for rescuing the queen.

  “My lady. I hope you’re recovering well from your injury.”

  Nimue swung round and stared at the Roman officer who had spoken her language and stood smiling down at her. Did she know him? Why did he address her as if they were acquainted? Or perhaps he was merely enquiring after her health because he was a friend of Tacitus.

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment. And then, obscurely, the Gaul’s words came back to her. Her only weapon and means of defense was to use the Romans’ perception of her against them. She might be well on the way to full health but there was no need to let this Roman know.

  “As well as can be expected.” It occurred to her she should wince in pain, or perhaps hold her injured arm. The image turned her stomach and besides she wasn’t sure she could carry off such a masquerade.

  “Rest assured,” the Roman said, taking another step toward her, a look of concern on his face, “I personally ensured that the one responsible was duly punished for his crime.”

  The auxiliary who had approached her as they’d set up camp. She hadn’t understood why he’d been punished for shooting her but it appeared this Roman was the one responsible.

  And he expected her to be grateful for it.

  “In a battle it’s expected that the enemy will shoot each other.” She tried to keep her voice even so this Roman wouldn’t guess how his remark had irritated her but by the way he raised his eyebrows she wasn’t sure she’d succeeded. Perhaps her best course of action was to keep her mouth shut altogether.

  “The battle was over, my lady. And no warrior worthy of the name would shoot an innocent woman in cold blood.”

  How blind these Romans were. She bit her tongue and embraced the sharp pain that cleared her mind. There was no point defending her position. It would achieve nothing but the possibility of angering this officer. Instead she should use her feminine wiles, the way the Gaul had indicated. The way she had failed to use them on Tacitus, because Tacitus, despite their short acquaintance, knew her too well to fall for them.

  Besides, she didn’t wish to pretend to be someone she wasn’t with Tacitus. The one time she had tried, by refusing to embrace the orgasm that had threatened to consume her, what had she gained? Nothing but rabid frustration and an unpleasant coldness that had lingered between them until his commanding officer had shaken the shades from her eyes.

  She affected a soft sigh, as if the memory of being shot was too traumatic to recall. “I’m eternally grateful that Tacitus didn’t leave me to be rounded up with the rest of the captives.”

  The Roman’s eyes widened at her use of Tacitus’ name and again she stamped down the flare of anger. Why was it so odd that she used his name? First the healer, and now this officer reacted as if it was something extraordinary. Was she supposed to refer to him by his rank?

  Another thought occurred to her. One that should have occurred to her immediately. It was more likely that, as his slave, she should call him her master. It was how slaves referred to their owners in her society so why would it be different for Romans?

  The difference was that this time she was the slave. And even to keep up this flimsy masquerade she wasn’t certain she could force that word between her lips.

  “My lady,” the Roman said, and in her peripheral vision she saw the seamstress edge closer, clearly unsure whether to intercede or not, “such a fate for you never crossed my mind. My first imperative was to ensure your wellbeing.”

  She trawled through her memories, but after the arrow had struck she could recall nothing clearly until waking in Tacitus’ tent. Had this officer seen her unconscious by the mountain stream? The knowledge that she’d been so vulnerable and unaware sent a trickle of unease along her spine. “You were there?”

  He smiled, and a detached section of her mind acknowledged that he possessed an autocratic beauty of his own. But almost instantly, the impact of his words wiped out any other consideration.

  He had been there when Tacitus had claimed her freedom. Did he know anything about the queen and princess?

  “I persuaded my esteemed cousin to save you from the indignity of being herded with the others. You are clearly no peasant, my lady, and deserve a better fate than that.”

  None of her people deserved such a fate at the hands of the Romans, but it was equally clear this Roman had no idea he’d just insulted her by his words. And then his other comment fell into place in her mind.

  He and Tacitus were cousins? And he had persuaded Tacitus to save her?

  Somehow that didn’t feel right. Did this barbarian think to flatter her with such talk?

  She was just about to take issue with his comment when something made her glance at the stall to her left that sold small carved timber goods. At eye level, fixed to the wooden pole that supported the awning above the table, an exquisite rendition of an owl observed her with unblinking intensity.

  Nimue only just stopped herself from sinking to her knees before the image of her beloved Goddess. The owl was a reminder that she was in the heart of the enemy’s camp, that she had to watch her tongue. With this Roman at least, she should play the weak female he clearly imagined she was.

  With reluctance, she dragged her gaze from the owl and mentally stiffened her spine. Her pride might weep at what she was about to do, but she would recover. She needed vital information.

  “Thank you. I’m most grateful for your benevolence.” How the words burned her throat. But the self-satisfied smirk on the Roman’s face was more than enough to convince her that she’d sounded genuine. “I don’t think I could survive in the pit with the other captives.”

  Goddess forgive her. Nimue felt her face glow with shame at her words, but she was following Arianrhod’s instructions. Yet even knowing that didn’t help to ease the acidic scor
ch of betrayal that seared her. She sounded as though she didn’t care about the suffering of her people, as long as she remained free and unchained.

  “Do not distress yourself.” The Roman’s smirk faded as though he imagined she might dissolve into hysterics. “You’ll never be put with the other slaves, as long as there’s breath left in my body.”

  Had she a dagger to hand, the breath would leave his body a lot sooner than he imagined. She fought to subdue the enticing thought, in case it showed on her face. “You’re very kind.” She widened her eyes in the hope it would stop her from baring her teeth in frustration. The Roman stared at her, seemingly entranced, and she forcibly reminded herself of the reason for this deception. “I cannot sleep at night for fear of being thrown into the pit, chained like a wild beast.”

  “No man would dare chain you.” He sounded shocked by the notion, as if the chaining of slaves was unheard of. “And there’s no pit, my lady. We’re not savages.”

  She might have been playing to this Roman’s prejudices against her sex, but she was sure they kept their prisoners in a primitive pit, without protection against the elements. Perhaps her people had got that wrong.

  “You keep the slaves inside?” She injected a note of awe into her voice. Surely he would strike her for her mockery but the Roman appeared completely oblivious to where she was heading. From the corner of her eye she saw the seamstress, a look of agitation on her face, clearly debating the wisdom of approaching while her charge conversed with another officer. It would seem Tacitus hadn’t specifically given instructions that she wasn’t to speak to another Roman, but that was likely because he never imagined she would.

  And she wouldn’t have. But this Roman had approached her.

  “Of course,” the Roman said, as though it was imperative she believe him. “We would never subject women and children to unnecessary hardship. They are housed beyond the Veterinarium.” He indicated with a jerk of his head the direction that he meant. Nimue stared at him in disbelief at how easily he’d given her the information she sought. Did he even realize the importance of what he’d told her?