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BOOK: Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 01]

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Nausea rode him. He balled his fists, ignored the sweat drenching his body.

Carys with another man.

Unthinking, he dropped the reins and took another step forward, relinquishing the shelter offered by the trees’ shadows.

How could she take another man?

Acid churned his gut, unlike anything he had ever experienced, seeming to eat into the region of his heart, leaving great, gaping holes of fire.

It was deeper than rage. Sharper than damaged pride. It was as if he suffered from acute indigestion and severe food poisoning, and the reason for his physical indignities lay spread-eagled on the ground, just feet from where she had lain open to him so recently.

Giving herself to another.

It was hard to breathe. He sucked in a lungful of oxygen but the air seared him, as if tainted with the foulest smoke.

But still he moved forward, although gods knew why he didn’t simply yell his anger and impale the Celtic bastard on his gladius.

And then turn his weapon on her, the lying bitch.

Each step took a century, yet he was upon them before her blond lover had the chance to take her. And in that one blazing moment, Maximus saw through his tortured disbelief.

Carys lay unmoving on the ground, her arms tethered to her sides by her ripped gown. Her eyes were vacant, dilated, and stared unseeing into the sky. Blood smeared her lips and cheek.

Fury scorched his veins, obliterating the inexplicable aches within his body into a solid, recognizable core.

His woman was being violated.

He gripped the stranger’s long hair, ripped him upward and smashed his fist into the shocked face. The Celt reeled backward, stumbled into the shallows of the stream. Maximus took a step in his direction, his mind filled only with the image of vengeance, of slicing this creature’s balls from his groin and forcing them down his misbegotten throat.

He had promised Carys, and he kept his promises. It mattered not whether the perpetrator was Roman or Celt.

Gladius in hand, he advanced. Strange silver eyes glared back at him, the malevolence so potent he could feel it singe his skin.

“Prepare to die, barbarian.”

The Celtic barbarian bared his teeth and, for one spine-shivering moment, Maximus was reminded of something, something that shimmered just beyond the veil of memory.

Rasping breaths from behind him stilled his pace. Carys sounded as if she could scarcely breathe. She needed his help.

But her attacker stood mere feet away, as if daring him to advance. It wouldn’t take long to mutilate this bastard, to avenge Carys.

The rattling gasp she gave sent chills along his flesh, and with one last glower at his quarry, he retraced his steps, never taking his eye from the Celt until he reached Carys’s side.

He risked tearing his glare from the Celt to look down at her. Another bolt of anger seared through his heart, but additionally a sliver of fear gripped his gut.
What had the Celt done to her?

She lay as if unconscious, and yet her eyes remained open. Every instinct, born of his heritage, his years in the army,
his core of honor
, demanded he exact retribution from her attacker.

And yet Carys needed him.

Grinding his teeth, he sank to his knees and tugged her gown over her thighs, covering her exposed flesh. In his peripheral vision he saw the barbarian retreating, heard the splash of water, and his fingers tightened around his gladius in readiness.

But the coward made no move toward him, instead vanishing into the far side of the woods.

May Mars strike him down.
It crucified him to allow an enemy to escape, but Carys—for Jupiter’s sake—what in Tartarus was wrong with Carys?

Still clenching his gladius in case the Celt made an unexpected return, he attempted to cover her breasts, but the material snagged around her arms, impeding his one-handed efforts. He leaned over her and frowned into her glazed eyes.

“Carys?” His voice was barely above a whisper. She made no sign that she could hear him, and somehow that was even more unnerving than her vacant stare.

With a finger that unaccountably shook, he gently wiped the blood from her lips. He could see no cut or bruising upon her face, but that meant nothing. He, Tiberius Valerius Maximus, had failed to protect her when she had needed him most.

He ripped the fibula from his right shoulder, barely acknowledging how the clasp tore his flesh and spilt his blood, and pulled his cloak free. With one sharp glance across the stream to ensure the Celt wasn’t making a stealthy return, he placed his gladius on the grass.

Sliding his arm beneath Carys’s neck, he lifted her from the ground and slipped his cloak around her, covering her chilled body. Still she didn’t acknowledge his presence, but merely lay there as if she were a beautiful, malleable corpse.

And then a strange, pungent aroma drifted in the air, taunting his consciousness with an elusive familiarity.

Pinpricks of alarm raced through his blood, although he couldn’t fathom why, only knew in the most elemental recesses of his soul that the cloying aroma clinging to Carys was somehow
wrong
.

An iron fist wrapped around his lungs, crushed his ability to breathe. Sheathing his gladius, he gently lifted her, holding her close to his body. Smothering his natural instincts that urged him to ignore his suspicions, he lowered his head and drew her breath deep into his constructed chest.

For one shattering moment he was catapulted back to his childhood, back to the sacred temples of the oracles with their swirling incense and magical flames.

Comprehension flooded his brain. And then flames of another kind roared through his lungs, expanded his chest and scorched his sanity as the realization of
what
the barbarian truly was punched through his consciousness.

On the other side of the stream, hidden within the shade of the trees, Aeron watched as the Roman scum lifted Carys as if she belonged to him, and strode back the way he had obviously come.

Aeron gripped his hazel rod, imagined it was the invader’s neck. How dare the cretin throw him aside, as if he were of no account? And how dare he touch Carys, soiling her flesh, polluting her spiritual journey?

Grinding his teeth, he arrowed malevolence across the stream, searing the Roman’s retreating back. Fucking coward, to attack him when he possessed no weapon, when he was unprepared, when he’d been about to take Carys and impregnate her with his son.

Rage broiled through his gut, ignited his veins. And now the Roman would fuck her instead, fill her with his foul seed, corrupting the sanctity of her womb.

Air hissed between his clenched teeth. She would never conceive a Roman brat. He would see her dead first, honor preserved.

But first he would deal with the Roman abductor.

When he was sure he was alone, he emerged into the clearing, hazel rod angled slightly above the ground. The answer was here, somewhere. He could feel the certainty humming through his bones, and, although he didn’t know what he sought, that was of no consequence.

He would know when he found it.

The hazel rod jerked and Aeron sank to his knees. Hidden among the grass a gold barbaric broach glinted. And smeared across the sharp clasp: Roman blood.

Maximus rode back to the settlement, one arm wrapped around the still-unconscious Carys. A dozen fragmented thoughts churned through his brain, but this wasn’t something he could conquer through superior might, or fight with physical strength, or lambaste with logic.

For this, he needed a priest.

An auxiliary took his horse and Maximus shouldered his way through the locked door of his new quarters.

He lowered Carys onto the bed, tugged her gown into some semblance of modesty across her breasts and then hovered by her side. He didn’t want any messenger to know of his business, yet how could he leave her alone to go to the temple, when she was so vulnerable?

“Maximus?”

Maximus straightened and turned toward the bedroom door where Aquila stood. The one man he trusted above all others. Sometimes the gods answered a prayer before it had even been uttered. “Aquila, fetch me the priest.”

Aquila glanced at Carys. “The priest? What’s happened, Maximus? Who is this woman?”

Mine.

He strode toward Aquila and glanced through the door to ensure they were alone. “She was attacked. By a Druid.”

“You captured a Druid?”

He fucking should have. “He escaped.”

“How do you know he was a Druid if you haven’t interrogated him?”

He should have caught that bastard
. “He drugged her with elixir of the gods. She looks awake, yet is unaware of our world.”

“You saw this happen?”

“I didn’t need to see it.” His voice was sharp. “She reeks of the essence of the oracles. As for the Druid, there’s no mistake.” He should have realized instantly what the creature was, as soon as he’d seen him stumble into the water. “His stance was unmistakable, even without the blue-daubed nakedness of the ones at the border.”

“You say she was attacked. But perhaps she’s his woman. She could lead us to where the Druids are hiding.”

“She’s not his woman.” The thought was repellant. “He was about to rape her as I arrived.”

Aquila regarded him through narrowed eyes. “How did the Druid evade capture? If he was alone and vulnerable with his cock hanging out, I fail to see why—”

Maximus grasped Aquila’s arm. “She’s mine.” He saw confusion and then comprehension flare in the other man’s eyes. “And I have every intention of capturing the barbarous Druid and exacting vengeance.”

“You know you’ll be questioned as to why the Druid escaped.” Aquila’s voice was low, but filled with meaning.

Of course he knew. “The priest is bound by vows. I’ll ensure his silence on the matter.”

Carys’s head slumped to the side, facing him. His heart jerked against his ribs, but instantly he saw it meant nothing. She was as unaware as before.

“I wouldn’t trust the priests we have here to keep your counsel.” Aquila sounded grim. “They’re looking for any leverage to ensure their speedy return to Rome.”

“Then I saw no Druid.” Maximus shot his friend a feral glare. “Do you understand, Aquila? There was no Druid.”

Only the tightening of Aquila’s jaw betrayed his personal feelings on the matter. “I understand.”

Maximus faced the man who had been by his side since they were both boys in Rome. “Ensure you do understand. I’ll have no whispers circulating that Carys has anything to do with the barbaric Druids.”

Because she didn’t
.

A rasping breath from the bed penetrated his rage-fueled mind, and he crouched beside her.

“Carys, can you hear me?” His voice was gruff. “Do you know where you are?”

Her eyes flickered and began to water. “Mon.”

BOOK: Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 01]

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