Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Page 23

  Rescue him.

  “Don’t run.” His voice was still low, conversational even, yet threaded through with pure command. “You won’t get far.”

  Ice formed in the pit of her stomach and leaked into her veins. She straightened her already rigid spine, forced herself to maintain eye contact. She wouldn’t give these Roman barbarians the satisfaction of running, of being hunted down like a wild creature. She was an acolyte of the Moon Goddess Arianrhod and the pride of her people rested within her.

  She would not let them down, the way she had let the Briton queen down.

  “I have no intention of running.” Her voice was cold, regal but instead of anger at her disrespectful tone, she witnessed a flash of admiration in the commander’s green eyes.

  “I didn’t imagine for one moment that you would.” Finally he took a step toward her, but didn’t attempt to grab her. “A woman who would risk the wrath of the Eagle by releasing valuable prisoners wouldn’t run from her fate like a coward.”

  He knew. The words pounded through her mind in an erratic tattoo and dread curled like a serpent around her heart. He might want to fuck her, but the reason she was in this situation was because he’d guessed what she truly was. Why else would he think she had planned to mount a rescue? Why else would he taunt her with the knowledge that Druids didn’t run from their fate but faced it head on?

  She swallowed, her throat dry as dust. He could speculate as much as he liked. She would never admit to her heritage or spill the secrets she held sacred.

  “I came here only to give the Briton queen and her daughter clean clothes.” How could he argue with the evidence in her arms? It was impossible that he already knew of the others’ escape, although it wouldn’t be long before one of his subordinates informed him of the fact. “You said the slave traders wouldn’t arrive until midday.”

  “Yes.” His gaze roved over her face and she fought the urge to squirm. He looked at her like he wished to devour her and yet the strangest conviction gripped her that his interest was no longer sexual. “I had to force your hand, Nimue. I had to discover if you really were who I believe you to be.”

  Her stomach liquefied with nerves and a fleeting, brutal image of her mother’s last agonized moments flashed through her mind. In the end it didn’t matter if she admitted to being a Druid or not. It was enough that the commander suspected her. He could do whatever he wished and no one would prevent him.

  She angled her jaw at him. If he thought she would beg for her life, grovel at his feet for mercy, then he was pitifully mistaken. “You’ve already sold the queen.”

  “No. Gervas ensured that she and the girl are safe elsewhere. And they aren’t destined to be sold, Nimue. Their fate awaits them in Rome, by the Emperor’s decree. Do you really think I could allow you to free such valuable assets? Slaves are one thing. The queen and daughter of Caratacus are another.”

  Despite herself she felt her face burn. Was he telling her that he’d known of her plans all along? That he considered the loss of the women and children negligible? She knew the ways of Rome were different to her own, but no leader would willingly allow a member of the enemy to free captives of war.

  Yet wasn’t that exactly what the commander was saying?

  She tried one last time to protest ignorance. “I’m merely a woman, a slave. Why would you think I’d risk my life to save a foreign queen?”

  “The door was locked.” That was all he said. That was all he needed to say to let her know that she could deny her involvement until her dying breath and it would make no difference. “Yet that was no deterrent.”

  Despite the frenzied staccato of her heart and the rushing of her blood in her ears, she was acutely aware that no legionaries had descended to prevent her escape. But why hadn’t the commander issued such orders in advance? Did he intend to drag her through the fortification himself?

  “Nimue.” He took another step toward her and beneath the cover of the clothes she held, Nimue stealthily opened the pouch that contained the poisoned brooch. She knew her chance of escaping was slender but at least she would go down fighting. “How did you come by your silver torque?”

  His question was so unexpected, so utterly bizarre, that she forgot about her makeshift weapon and stared at him in disbelief. “My torque?” she echoed. Why did he care about such a thing? If he desired it, there was nothing to prevent him from taking it from her once she was fully within his power.

  “It’s very unusual.” His gaze was no longer fixed on her face. He stared at her throat as if the silver jewelry captivated him. “I’ve seen only one other like it, many years ago.”

  Her fingers slackened around the clothes; her hands were clammy, chest tight. Her torque was unique. There was no other like it. He’s lying.

  He took another step toward her, his gaze still focused on her throat. “When I was a young officer stationed in Gallia.”

  “No.” The denial seared her throat and she staggered back a step, her stomach churning with distress. “You couldn’t have. You’re mistaken.”

  “She had hair the color of honey and gold.” His voice was pensive, as though he’d slipped into the past and was reliving another life. The clothes fell from Nimue’s limp grasp and despite how she tried to fight it she was plunged back in time, to the night of her initiation.

  This was the happiest day of her life. The proudest moment she had yet experienced. But then her mother had drawn her aside and had whispered a secret that shattered the moment and tarnished its beauty and wonder forevermore.

  “You’re old enough to know the truth of your father’s heritage,” her mother had said. All Nimue knew of her father was he came from Gaul and although her mother had always refused to tell her any more about him Nimue knew, in her heart, he was a Druid of great power and renown. Thrilled at the prospect of finally discovering more about him she’d hugged her mother, eager to hear the secrets of her shadowed heritage. “He was a Roman officer, stationed in Gaul. I loved him with all my heart…”

  But she hadn’t heard any more. Hadn’t been able to process anything but he was a Roman officer. The words haunted her then, and had haunted her all her life. A Roman officer. She was the spawn of her people’s deadliest enemy, and it was a secret her mother had shared only with her. A secret they both would take to the Otherworld.

  “She was in Gallia visiting distant kin,” the commander said and Nimue’s throat closed as panic clawed through her body. “But her home was here, in Cambria.”

  “I don’t—” Her voice was hoarse and she floundered, the words paralyzing her throat, stupefying her brain. Because there were no words. Because he was wrong.

  “How old are you, Nimue?”

  The need to conceal her true age pounded through her mind. Twenty-one summers. Twenty-three. She could tell him anything, anything but the truth. But denial blocked her throat and her chest constricted with a pain so all-encompassing she feared her heart would cease to beat.

  “It’s been twenty-three years since I last saw her.” The commander’s intense gaze meshed with hers and a detached corner of her mind noted their clear green depths. She knew those eyes. They looked back at her every time she saw her reflection in a still pool. In that moment she knew it didn’t matter what she said. The commander knew, as surely as she did herself, whose child she was. “When you put the torque on the other day it was as if the gods themselves granted me a revelation. I knew who you had to be, Nimue. There’s not a day that’s passed in these twenty-three years that I haven’t thought of her.”

  His words had the power to break the stranglehold on her vocal cords and a bitter laugh flayed her throat. “Why would you think of her? She wasn’t a Roman.” She coated the hated word with as much venom as she could. “She was a Celt from Cymru, a land your filthy Emperor had yet to conquer.”

  He didn’t strike her for her insult against his loathed Emperor. How she wished he would so that she could sink her fingernails into him and shred the skin from his arist
ocratic face.

  “I know what she is,” he said, and a chill trickled along her spine at what he implied. “I always knew what she was, Nimue. It made no difference.”

  If he knew her mother had been a Druid, then from the moment he’d suspected who Nimue was he would have also known that she belonged to that ruling class too. Yet despite there being an automatic death sentence for any Druid discovered within Roman occupied lands the commander had allowed her to live.

  “Pray don’t try to tell me that you loved my mother.” She’d wanted derision to drip from every word, but instead a despicable tremble weaved through them. She’d despaired at the way she’d so easily fallen in love with Tacitus, a Roman; a race she had never admired but after her initiation her dislike had spiked into acidic loathing. Yet how could she not love him? She was a part of his heritage. And she was, after all, merely following in her own mother’s footsteps.

  “Why? Is that so hard to believe? She challenged me at every turn. As do you.”

  The restriction in Nimue’s chest eased, but instead of giving relief her heart rate accelerated and it became increasingly hard to breathe. But she hitched in a shallow gasp and jabbed her finger in the commander’s chest.

  “If you loved her so much then why did you leave her? Why did you never seek out your daughter?” Great Goddess Arianrhod, please let me not have said that aloud. She hated her Roman blood. She’d never wanted to know her father. And she certainly had never wondered, in the blackness of night, what he was really like or why he’d never wanted to know her.

  His jaw tensed. It appeared her accusation hit a raw nerve. “I didn’t leave her. I asked her to stay. Would have compromised my career for her if that’s what she wanted. She left me, Nimue. And she didn’t tell me that she had conceived my child.”

  No. This couldn’t be right. This couldn’t be happening. She had spent too long being angry with her mother, had lost too many moon-times to silences and harsh whispers. Eventually the passage of time soothed the sharp edge of shock and she’d forgiven her mother and had transferred all her sense of betrayal to her absent father.

  Who hadn’t even been aware of her existence.

  “What difference would it have made?” She flung the question at him as she struggled not to slump against the wall, wrap her arms around her waist, collapse onto the floor. “Why would a Roman wish to claim the child of a…a Celt?” They both knew she meant Druid. But even between them, she would not allow the word to pass her lips.

  His nostrils flared, as if she had insulted his honor. “It would have made a difference. I would never have abandoned the child of the woman I loved.”

  “Your pledges of undying devotion come too late.” Her chest hurt with the force of her heartbeat, and she still couldn’t breathe properly. She was lightheaded, akin to the sensation when she ascended into trance, but there was no sense of peace and joy in her soul. “They mean nothing to me, do you hear? Nothing.”

  As if she watched the scene from above she saw him grip her arms, obviously concerned she might fall. But she felt nothing, only the heavy thump of her heart and pound of her blood. Even her vision was dimming, as though storm clouds concealed the sun.

  “It’s not too late.” His urgent words penetrated the fog in her mind but they didn’t make sense. “I can erase all record of your capture and enslavement, Nimue. You’ll be free to return home. But grant me one small favor. Tell me where your mother is.”

  The dizziness vanished; the sense of unreality dissolved. She gasped in air, and tried to pull free but his grip on her tightened. “My mother?” Bone-deep sorrow flooded through her and twisted around her aching heart. “You want me to tell you about my mother?”

  “Yes.” His face was so close to hers she could see golden flecks in his eyes. Could see, also, the truth of his words when he declared his love. Somehow that inflamed her fury, magnified her grief.

  “Are you sure you want to know?” She fired the question into his face, and derived morbid satisfaction from the wariness that suddenly clouded his eyes. “Are you sure you can stomach it, Roman, knowing what your precious countrymen did to her?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Tacitus tried to ignore the insidious voice in the back of his mind that insisted he check on the slaves. He knew Nimue would be there. He’d informed the legionary on guard and his commander of the fact so there would be no misunderstanding either of Nimue’s motives or that she was there with his permission.

  There was no need to check on the slaves. Nimue was only giving them clean clothes and one of her teas. What did he imagine she might do armed with only a pile of gowns? Yet he kept seeing the determined gleam in her eyes when she’d asked his permission to give them to the slaves.

  He was under no illusion that even if he’d denied permission, she would have found a way to countermand his orders.

  It wasn’t that knowledge that disturbed him.

  He rounded the corner and caught sight of the prisoners’ block. And instantly saw his seamstress slumped on the ground, apparently deep in slumber.

  There was no sign of Nimue.

  Instinctively he glanced around the surrounding area but it was deserted. Black rage seared through his chest, a suffocating fog that filled his lungs and tightened his throat. Nimue had betrayed him.

  He reached the sleeping woman and glowered at her. A cup—one he recognized from his own kitchen—rested in her slack grasp. He jerked his gaze upward and saw the legionary propped against the wall. His eyes were closed.

  Tacitus cursed violently under his breath and dropped into a crouch. “Wake up.” He accompanied the order with a swift shake of the woman’s shoulders. “Where’s Nimue?”

  The woman stirred, muttered and opened one glazed eye. The rage coalesced in the pit of his gut, a savage, writhing fury he could barely contain. Nimue had used her herbs to drug them both. Herbs she had gathered right under his nose.

  “Get up.” He forced the command between his teeth, and hauled the woman to her feet. “Get back to my quarters and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.” He picked up the discarded amphorae and tipped the incriminating contents into the ground before thrusting it into her arms. “Do you understand?”

  She blinked, caught sight of his face and visibly blanched. “Yes, sir,” she whispered, bowing her head before she stumbled off.

  Tacitus reined in his urge to smash his fist in the insensible legionary’s face and instead shoved open the door to the prisoners’ quarters. It was empty. He knew it would be empty but still another scorching flame of betrayal seared through his chest.

  Nimue had released the prisoners but it wasn’t that fact that hammered through his brain or razed his senses. It was the knowledge that she had taken his trust, trampled it beneath her feet and escaped him at the first opportunity.

  He marched around the corner, hands fisted, teeth clenched. She wouldn’t have gone without Caratacus’ queen and daughter. He no longer needed to hide from the truth that had been obvious from the moment he and Nimue had met.

  She was no ordinary Celtic noblewoman. If she had been, she wouldn’t have been alone by that mountain stream. She wouldn’t have stood her ground, holding a dagger, unless she had been trained in self-defense. Nor was she simply a gifted healer who’d been traveling with the Britannia queen.

  She was a Druid. Why else would she risk death by staging such a daring rescue of her people? How could he have allowed her delicate beauty to blind him to what she truly was?

  Bitterly he acknowledged the truth. It hadn’t. He’d chosen to remain in ignorance because the consequences, had he faced his suspicions, had been unthinkable.

  Now he would pay the price for that self-illusion.

  It was too much to hope that she was in the adjoining building preparing the queen for escape, and yet still he hoped. The alternative—the Legion hunting her down—was too horrific to imagine.

  “Tell me where your mother is.” The commander’s voice, muted yet w
ith an oddly desperate tone, stopped Tacitus dead in his tracks. Was his commander in the queen’s prison?

  “My mother?”

  The familiar voice caused his heart to jackknife. Against the odds, Nimue was still there. But the savage relief that spiked through him was instantly shattered. She was in there—with his commander.

  “You want me to tell you about my mother?” The incredulity in her voice hammered through his brain, melding with his own. Why in Hades was his commander asking Nimue about her mother?

  “Yes.”

  Gods, he didn’t know where the commander was going with this conversation, but it didn’t bode well for Nimue. He couldn’t imagine how she and his commander had ended up together but one certainty pounded through his mind.

  So far, his commander was in ignorance of Nimue’s involvement in the slaves’ escape. If he knew, then he certainly wouldn’t be questioning her about her maternal heritage. And then a torch flared in his mind and his chest tightened. There was only one reason why his commander should ask such a question and that was if he suspected her bloodline.

  Tacitus reached the door. Saw Nimue in the commander’s arms.

  “Are you sure you want to know?” There was a savage note in her voice. “Are you sure you can stomach it, Roman, knowing what your precious countrymen did to her?”

  “Fuck, Nimue.” The words burst from him as he grabbed her arms and ripped her from his commander. Did she have a death wish? Was she completely insane?

  “For five days they kept her. Tortured her. Tried to break her body and spirit—”

  He shook her in horror, for once uncaring about her injured shoulder. “Nimue, be silent—”

  “Those bastard Romans raped her, beat her with chains and leather—”

  Tacitus’ stomach roiled and for a moment he glanced at the commander, a section of his mind wondering at his continued silence; wondering why an order not to render her unconscious hadn’t been issued his way.