Tainted Page 4

  “Now, Gawain.” Carys’ mood became eager. “Did you reach Mon? Did you speak with my mother about leaving the sacred Isle?”

  He dragged his attention back to the present. “She is still determined not to leave until she can persuade all the Elders to agree to a mass exodus.” After the Druids had fled Cymru, almost two full turns of the wheel ago, they had sought refuge on the sacred Isle. But he hadn’t stayed long. He couldn’t stand the thought of hiding from their enemies yet again and so he’d left to join the rebellion led by the Briton king, Caratacus.

  And look what a fucking mess that had turned out to be.

  Lugus had not graced Gawain with his presence at any time during the rebellion or the bloodied aftermath. Yet what was Gawain supposed to do? Remain on a secluded isle while their people continued to suffer?

  That was not the way of Lugus, the finder of paths and seeker of truth. It was not Gawain’s way either. Yet he could not shift the knot of doubt lodged in his chest that his god not only disapproved of Gawain’s actions but had also turned his back on his loyal Druid.

  Not that Gawain blamed Carys’ mother for her reluctance to leave the safety of the Isle. He knew that wasn’t her primary motive for staying. She wanted to ensure the continuance of their Druidic way of life. It was the reason she hadn’t left with him to join Caratacus. What had she told him? She didn’t want a foreign king to unwittingly lead her people into a Roman-conspired trap.

  Her foresight, in retrospect, was chilling. And reinforced the unsettling suspicion that Lugus truly had severed all sacred bonds with Gawain. Otherwise, why hadn’t his god warned him of the treachery that laid in wait for the king?

  It had been from that moment that he’d finally stopped trying to reach Lugus. When the time was right, his god would return.

  Surely he would return.

  Carys stared at him in disbelief. “But you told her of my vision? That Britain will burn and the Isle of Mon—it isn’t safe, Gawain. I don’t know why I feel that so strongly but surely she understands she can’t stay there?”

  “She understands, Carys.” He took her hands. “She will leave, I’m sure of it. But for now she feels her place is to ensure as many of our people survive the Roman onslaught as possible.”

  Carys snatched her hands free. “Her place is here, with her daughter and granddaughter. How will our ways survive if all our Elders perish when the Isle falls?”

  Gawain was silent. How could he comfort her when in his heart, where hope had long since died, he believed that their way of life was already ultimately condemned?

  When Antonia arrived back at the townhouse, a grand establishment her father had commissioned in the most prestigious district of Camulodunum, it was a relief to escape to her bedchamber. Her father’s incessant questions about the tribune’s foreign wife on the journey home had forced her to face the fact that it wasn’t Carys or what an advantageous friendship they might cultivate that occupied her thoughts at all.

  Not that she had ever deluded herself for a moment that it was. Gawain’s mocking smile and incendiary touch left little room for anything else in her mind.

  She went to the window and looked out into the central courtyard. It was smaller than the tribune’s, but meticulously tended as all Roman courtyards should be. But it wasn’t the decorative statuary or exotic plants and flowers that captured her attention. It was the incongruous vision of Gawain in her father’s domain, welcomed as an equal.

  A foolish thought. Her father would never welcome a savage Cambrian warrior into his home, unless that warrior could be of use to him. And she certainly couldn’t imagine any reason why Gawain would want to set foot inside a Roman merchant’s dwelling, no matter how well-respected the merchant might be.

  “Is anything troubling you, domina?”

  Antonia glanced at her faithful slave, Elpis. They had always been close but it was only during the last year that Antonia had realized that, in truth, Elpis was more of a friend than any of the refined Roman ladies she’d met since her marriage to Scipio.

  “No.” Her fingers curled around the precious golden locket her father had given her to celebrate the day of her birth. A bittersweet celebration, since it was also the day her mother had died. Slowly she opened the locket. The likeness of her mother was painted on one half and on the other she’d illicitly commissioned the baby perfection of her daughter to be painted over her own portrait.

  Her beautiful baby. The only child her womb had nurtured to term, the only one of the five she had conceived who had survived for longer than a few tortured breaths.

  She swallowed, and traced a trembling finger across the perfect features. Her sweet Cassia Antonia, named not for her brutal husband but for her own mother and father. A small act of rebellion that had sustained her for the fraught hours after the debilitating birth, but a rebellion that paled into insignificance at what she had done next.

  “You will soon be reunited,” Elpis whispered, her hand lightly covering Antonia’s in a gesture that a friend might make, not a slave no matter how highly esteemed that slave might be. “A few more weeks, domina, and she will once again be in your arms.”

  A few more weeks, and she would be able to see Cassia whenever she wished. No more furtive journeys, avoiding Scipio’s fawning dependents who would betray her without a second thought, to spend a few stolen moments with her baby.

  Scipio believed their daughter was dead. He would never know the truth. And because of Antonia’s lies, Cassia would enjoy a life away from Rome, away from her birthright, but a life filled with love and her mother’s utter devotion.

  Even if Cassia would never know that her adoptive mother was, in truth, her birth mother. For if Scipio ever discovered her deception, she feared his rigid pride would never allow such devious disregard of his wishes to go unpunished.

  When Cassia arrived, Antonia intended to devote her life to her precious child. She would never jeopardize her daughter’s happiness by taking a second husband who might resent another man’s child. And she would have no time for a lover.

  But Cassia was not in Britannia yet. And the unsettling lust that had consumed Antonia while in Gawain’s company still seethed through her blood. If she truly wished to sample sex with another man then now was the perfect, the only, chance she would ever have.

  She looked at Elpis. They had been inseparable since the day her father had presented the young Greek girl to her on the eighth anniversary of her birth. Her very own slave, barely a year older than her, yet even then the bonds of friendship had somehow woven through the constraints of rank and heritage.

  Elpis had been the one who had comforted her when Antonia had suffered from terrifying nightmares of darkness, confusion and the unshakeable certainty that her destiny balanced on a fragile thread. Elpis who had interpreted the mysterious feminine presence protecting Antonia as the great goddess Juno.

  Elpis who had reassured both Antonia and her father that the unknown words she whispered while deep in the throes of sleep came directly from the queen of Olympus herself.

  It had taken her too long to recognize the truth of their close relationship. She knew, in her heart, she should free Elpis but how could she bear it if the other woman left?

  She pushed the thought aside. She needed Elpis and too much had happened over the last year for her to willingly seek any more disruption to her life.

  So why in the name of Juno was she seriously contemplating taking Gawain as her lover?

  “It cannot come quickly enough.” She longed to once again hold Cassia in her arms. Was it very wrong of her to also want Gawain’s strong arms about her? Just to experience the kind of sex she could give freely, without the demands of Rome chaining her to the bed?

  “All will be well when she’s once again with us,” Elpis said. “But what else troubles you, domina?”

  Elpis was too observant. What chance did Antonia have of hiding her plans from her? She didn’t even want to. Elpis, after all, was her closest confidant a
nd would sooner cut out her own tongue than betray Antonia.

  She closed her locket and took Elpis’ hands. “Do you still have the forbidden herbs?”

  Elpis’ eyes widened. It was obvious Antonia’s question took her completely by surprise. For years, she’d encouraged Antonia to take the magical concoctions that would prevent conception. And Antonia had refused, until after the birth of Cassia. Not that she had needed them, then. Scipio had not come near her since that blood-drenched night. But she had continued to take them, right up until the day she boarded the ship bound for Britannia. Nothing, not even the wrath of the gods, would have induced her to risk Scipio impregnating her once again.

  “I brought them with us. And I’m certain I can find more in the markets if needed.”

  Antonia took a deep breath. If she had decided to step foot on this path, then she would make the necessary preparations before her doubts overtook her.

  “I shall start taking them this day.”

  “Domina?” There was an unmistakable edge of concern in Elpis’ voice, reflected on her face. “Did something happen to you that the dominus is unaware of?”

  “No.” Antonia could feel her face heating and she turned away from Elpis’ penetrating gaze. “I was not attacked. But even though I’ll never marry again, I don’t want Scipio to have been the only man I’ve ever known.” She risked glancing over her shoulder. Reluctant understanding glowed in Elpis’ eyes. “There was a Cambrian warrior, kin of the tribune’s wife, who showed interest. I believe I will take him up on his unspoken offer.”

  Chapter Five

  Gawain leaned with studied nonchalance against a stone wall adjacent to the main market—the forum, the Romans called it—and glanced at his companion. The man was a close confident of the Iceni king but Gawain had learned nothing from him that he didn’t already know.

  Although other Briton chieftains periodically rose up against their Roman invaders, the Iceni were content to be a client kingdom, a puppet of the foreign emperor. Before the Caratacus rebellion last summer, he would have railed against the Icenis stand, berating them for cowardice. But after the bloodied betrayal and his near escape from death from those who had pledged allegiance to Caratacus, the Iceni king’s oath of fealty to Rome barely stirred an ember of anger in his chest.

  There would be no large-scale revolt in this corner of Britain, despite how poorly the town was fortified. At least, not yet. Who knew how allegiances might change in the future?

  At least the Iceni king didn’t attempt to deceive anyone about where his loyalty lay.

  “Life under Rome can be good,” the man said. “My liege sees no reason to jeopardize his relations with the emperor for no good reason.”

  Gawain could name a dozen good reasons without even thinking about it, but there was no point. Unlike those who rebelled, the client kings retained their lands and an illusion of power. Not for the first time, he questioned his actions in coming to Camulodunon after the fall of Caratacus, instead of returning to Cymru and continuing the battle.

  But he knew why. If Caratacus with his army of warriors and Druids and a magical enclave that had hidden their whereabouts from the enemy hadn’t been enough to defeat the Legions, how could small bands of untrained and poorly armed rebels hope to make a difference?

  He’d hoped the Britons might be stirred to insurrection. Where better to hit the enemy than in this newly constructed capital? With their greater numbers, they might stand a chance against the Legions. But so far, the reality had fallen far short of his expectations.

  And then, of course, he had discovered Carys and her tribune were stationed here. How could he stir up a full-scale rebellion, even if such a feat was possible, when it would put her and Nia in danger?

  His meeting with this man today was for no other reason than to gather information he might be able to use in the future.

  A flash of a blue cloak in the milling crowd caught his attention and unthinking he turned. For a moment, the blue vanished but then reappeared and a jolt slammed through his chest.

  Antonia.

  Irritation spiked that such a fleeting glimpse of her recalled all the reasons why she haunted his nighttime fantasies. He didn’t want reminding. The last thing he needed was her beautiful face, ice-blue eyes and pale golden hair invading his dreams.

  He barely registered the other man’s farewell. His attention was fixed on Antonia as she weaved her way through the crowd. In the three days since they had met, he’d made no effort to contact her. He had attempted to convince his rampaging lust that he’d only found her so irresistible because it had been more than two moons since he’d last had a woman.

  As he stared, riveted, at her elegant profile as she admired silken frivolities at a stall, he acknowledged the truth.

  He still wanted her. And doubtless his desire-fueled nightly visions would continue until he’d sampled the real thing.

  Without warning, she looked up from the ribbons in her hand and unerringly caught his gaze. She didn’t appear surprised or startled at either his presence or his direct stare. Had she been aware of him before she’d deigned to acknowledge him?

  He pushed himself from the wall and sauntered toward her. She didn’t turn away, didn’t attempt to break eye contact or disappear into the bustling crowd. She merely stood there, waiting for him.

  Anticipation thrummed through his veins. She might not have arranged for an illicit assignation as his other Roman conquests had. But her surrender smoldered in the air, enhanced by the foreign spices and exotic delicacies on offer at neighboring stalls.

  “Lady Antonia.” He didn’t offer her his hand. He knew she would never accept his kiss of greeting. At least, not in public. Instead he gave a half bow, unable to keep the smile of satisfaction from his lips. “I trust the day finds you well.”

  She inclined her head, a familiar gesture he recalled from their conversation at Carys’. “Thank you.” Her voice was as cool as he remembered and just as enchanting. For a moment, he thought she intended to say more, but instead she dropped the ribbons she’d been holding back onto the stall.

  He waited, but she appeared fascinated by a collection of glittering colored beads displayed in a woven basket. Was she waiting for him to make the next move? If she’d changed her mind then surely she would not still be standing here beside him, looking so remote and untouchable?

  “Would you care for some company?” Gods, the stilted words all but choked him. If she were a Celt, he could come right out and say what he meant. But that hadn’t stopped him with the other Romans he’d laid. They’d been superficially shocked by his blunt, barbarous manner but also delighted. So why, with Antonia, did he feel this odd need to coat his base intentions with honeyed words?

  He’d not felt so restricted the other day. But when they’d conversed before, they had not been in the middle of a busy marketplace.

  She gave him a lingering sideways glance. “Perhaps.” A delicate blush highlighted her cheeks, giving her an irresistible air of seductive innocence. It took him a moment to drag his mesmerized thoughts from such a laughable illusion. Antonia might be a seductress but she was no innocent. He wasn’t interested in innocence. And he couldn’t fathom why such a thought had drifted across his mind in the first place.

  Antonia was playing a game. She might have played it countless times in the past with various lovers. He had no objection. Not when the outcome remained the same.

  “Do you often visit the markets?” He glanced at Antonia’s companion, a young woman who, although doubtless a slave, didn’t instantly drop her gaze to the ground when he caught her eye. Instead, she appeared to be scrutinizing him in a way he couldn’t fathom.

  He returned his attention to Antonia who was now once again looking his way. If she made a habit of visiting the market it would be an easy matter to secure a room somewhere nearby for their mutual pleasure.

  “Rarely,” she said, demolishing that idea. “My father is convinced danger lurks for me on every corn
er.”

  “And what do you think? Does danger lurk for you at every corner?” Even as he spoke, he knew the answer. She was too fragile to defend herself against any form of attack. That was why she would never be allowed to wander the markets without her slave and, he was certain, a guarded litter to escort her through the streets.

  But there were ways around such obstacles.

  “Oh.” A smile tugged at her lips. “Not every corner.”

  He laughed, surprising himself, but her response had been slightly deprecating and unexpectedly amusing. An intriguing combination for a Roman noblewoman.

  “Do not fear. My sword is at your disposal.”

  She didn’t simper or gasp in mock outrage at his words. Her smile deepened and with an odd sense of disbelief, he realized she read no sexual implication in his comment at all.

  “I trust you’ll never need to use it on my account.”

  Her words confirmed his suspicion. Unless this, also, was part of her seduction routine?

  He leaned toward her, enough to give them an illusion of privacy but not close enough to cause heads to turn.

  “I look forward to nothing more than using it on your account, my lady.”

  A blush suffused her cheeks and he stared at her, transfixed. Anyone would imagine she was an untouched virgin, unused to such banter. Yet he knew that, despite their outward show of modesty, in private Roman matrons could be as earthy in matters of sex as his own countrywomen.

  Unless Antonia truly was a virgin? Unease slid through his mind. He couldn’t imagine why any husband would leave a woman as desirable as Antonia a maiden. Or was this the reason for her divorce? Because her husband had no interest in women?

  “In that case, I have no objection to encountering your…weapon.” Her whisper was so low he had to lean in closer to catch every word. Her elusive scent of woodland flowers teased his senses, stirred his blood and made a mockery of his vow to withdraw. Her eyes no longer reminded him of winter’s ice. They smoldered like a scorching summer sky. Virgin or not, he wanted her.