Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (22 page)

The thought quirked her lips. Hadn’t he told her he found her unpredictable?

“Why?” His tone was guarded. As if he couldn’t imagine any reason for her doing such a thing.

She shrugged and stretched her legs, rotating her ankles and curling her toes. “I wanted to see my friend again.”

The look on his face was worth the twinges of cramps attacking her calves, and she hid the smile that threatened to surface. Clearly he believed she had lost her mind.

“Your friend lives in Camulodunon?”

“Yes. I hadn’t seen her in . . . a while.”

He appeared to be digesting her revelation, and finding it extraordinarily hard to swallow. “She was a good friend of yours?” He sounded as if he found that beyond belief, as if he had assumed she possessed no friends at all, never mind lifelong ones.

Oddly, she realized she wasn’t offended by his assumption. Probably because he still looked confused by her casual remarks.

“She’s like a sister to me. We grew up together.” And they had always believed they would grow old together too. Along with the men they chose and any children they might have decided to birth in the future.

But that had been another future. For another time.

Doubt clouded his eyes, as if what she said made no sense. He appeared to be weighing up her words, and she had the distinct suspicion he no longer believed her. But why would he think that? What did she have to gain by lying about such a thing?

“That’s why you speak the Latin of the patricians.”

Of everything she thought he might have said, that wasn’t one of them. Had she imagined that look of skepticism on his face? Once again he wore his mask of implacability.

And how intriguing he had leaped to such a conclusion. How had he linked her lifelong friend with her ability to speak the language of the invaders?

“We shared a tutor. My Latin isn’t perfect because I was older when I began lessons.”

He glanced at the food as if her conversation no longer interested him, and began to pile cold meat onto a platter. “A Roman tutor?” His voice was casual but she caught the underlying tautness, as if far from uninterest he was, in reality, acutely interested in her words.

Baffled by such odd behavior, she stood and began to pile fruit and strange-looking vegetables on a second platter.

“No, of course not. He was Gallic.” She shot him a glance but he continued to examine the food. Carys’s elderly tutor might have originated from Gaul, and he might have been a Druid. But he had also possessed a Roman-bred mother.

She decided not to mention either of those last two facts.

“You must have been young when you began your lessons.” He turned and gave her a probing look before settling himself on the bed to eat.

She sat beside him, closer than necessary, although she wasn’t sure why.

“I was almost seven when my friend was born.” She couldn’t tell him Carys’s name. He knew Maximus. He might well know the name of Maximus’s wife. And for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, she didn’t want him to make the connection.

Again he shot her a glance, and this time there was the faintest trace of sympathy softening his hard features. As if the fact she had been taught Latin by a native of Gaul was somehow . . . tragic.

But that was insane. Why would he think such a thing? It was a massive advantage to understand everything the enemy said. He knew that. He spoke fluent Latin too.

Since he was now intent on eating and there wasn’t the slightest trace of sympathy on his face, she half wondered if she had imagined it.

“Didn’t she expect you to stay in Camulodunon for a time?”

Morwyn licked her sticky fingers and glanced at him. He caught her look and held it, but it wasn’t challenging. More as if he was genuinely interested.

“Yes, of course she wanted me to stay.” The words were out before she could think through the implications. But then, what implication could he draw from such a statement?

“Why didn’t you?”

Because she’d wanted to see him again. Blood heated her face, an infuriating reaction, but she couldn’t help it. And worse, her brain couldn’t conjure up another reason as to why she’d turned down Carys’s invitation. It was as if her only and entire motive for leaving Camulodunon was centered on this Gaul.

And it wasn’t. She had to leave Camulodunon because . . .

The
real
reason drifted with an odd undercurrent of reluctance across her paralyzed mind and she almost sagged in relief.

“Because I have to return home.” And find where the rebels were hiding. How had she forgotten that? It was her overriding goal. But her gaze dropped from his and she concentrated on her food, because she would die if he somehow guessed by a flicker of her eyes or expression that she wasn’t completely convinced by her own reply.

The Gaul sprawled on the other end of the bed, watching her comb the tangles from her hair. After they’d finished eating she’d cleansed her other gown as well as she could and left it to dry over the table. At least it no longer stank of sweat, although there was nothing she could do about the clinging odor of horse or travel until she returned to civilization.

Gods, she needed to bathe. The image of a Roman tub floated through her mind, and instead of immediately dismissing it, she savored the notion for a few brief moments.

Perhaps she’d suggest such a thing to him. But this time they could indulge together.

She smothered a sigh. Clearly, she had not yet had enough of him. She could only hope that, by the time they reached Cymru, her desire for him would cool.

Otherwise her nights would be plagued not merely by frustrated, lust-driven dreams, but a face and a body instead of an anonymous fantasy lover.

He opened a pouch that hung from his belt. Idly she watched him. How odd it was, to be sitting at the foot of the bed as if it was the most natural thing for them to share a quiet, domestic moment together.

She had never lived with a man when such a situation might have arisen. And she certainly wasn’t living with her Gaul, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling, no matter how incongruous.

“Here.” He pushed himself upright and deposited something onto her lap, scattering her errant thoughts. Bemused, she stared at the riot of vibrant colors splashed across her gown.

“What is it?” Gingerly she picked up the end of a sunshine golden length of material and gasped. It was cool, soft like the most luxuriant of fur, yet also as smooth as a babe’s skin.

Enthralled, she traced the tip of her finger across a length of forest green ribbon that reminded her of the Gaul’s eyes. Entranced, she picked up a strip of scarlet and then of summer-sky blue.

“Silk,” she said, looking at him as he once again reclined at the other end of the bed. He looked uncomfortable, as if he was unused to giving gifts, and offered her a one-shouldered shrug in reply.

A painful tug knotted the top of her stomach, as if a fist gripped her and twisted her insides without mercy. While she had been contemplating leaving him, he had been purchasing silken ribbons for her.

“They’re beautiful.” She threaded the green one through her fingers, delighting in the silky sensation against her skin. “Thank you.” And then she couldn’t help herself. “Why?”

His discomfort was palpable. Even though they weren’t touching, she could feel the way his muscles tensed, as if the last thing he had anticipated or wanted to do was explain his reasoning for giving her such an unexpected gift.

“Because.” It was a growl.

She rolled onto her knees and, holding her treasures in one hand, crawled up the bed beside him. He eyed her with evident suspicion, as if anticipating more unanswerable questions.

“Because?” She sat back on her heels, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around his neck and show him just how much his gesture meant to her.

Because
it shouldn’t mean that much to her. He had likely bought them only because he felt guilty for abducting her in the first place. And yet even knowing that didn’t change the way she felt.

She still wanted to wrap herself around him. And, most worrying, never let go.

He let out a disgruntled breath, as if she were a great annoyance. Anyone catching sight of the scowl on his face would be forgiven for running in terror. Yet she had no fear because no matter how he grimaced or glared, he could never quite hide the truth of his feelings from his eyes.

Was she the only one who could see that?

Maximus was mistaken in his opinion. This Gaul with the astonishing chink of vulnerability in his eyes could never be responsible for the crimes leveled against him.

“Because
.
”
The word was loaded with intense irritation. “Your gown was ruined in the forest.”

But not by him. Once again she stared at the ribbons, fascinated by how the colors shimmered as she twisted the silk between her fingers.

He hadn’t got them for her to apologize for abducting her, or chaining her like a slave. He’d bought them because his foul countrymen had attacked her.

Her brain knew such distinction meant nothing. Either way he had given them to her as a wordless apology for wrongs inflicted upon her.

Yet another, irrational, part of her—her mind, perhaps?—insisted that the distinction meant everything.

Bren watched Morwyn enter the public baths as if it were something she did on a daily basis. He leaned his shoulder against one of the fluted stone columns that graced the entrance, checked the military dispatch was still safely secured, and folded his arms.

Morwyn would be a while. When he’d suggested she visit the baths, she’d looked thrilled and hadn’t even tried too hard to hide her reaction. As if she no longer cared whether he knew the thought of such indulgence fascinated her.

But while her face told him she had no reservations about trying out the Roman baths, her tongue launched into a scathing diatribe of the invaders’ decadence. He hadn’t bothered arguing with her, and after a moment she’d stopped midsentence and started to laugh.

Unexpected and contrary. Her convictions were as rock, yet she laughed at herself when the irony of her comments became absurd. If he thought she would say one thing, she said another. And while he’d imagined she would deny having left the inn if asked, she’d instead told him without any prompting. As if she considered it her right to come and go as she pleased and it had never crossed her mind he might think otherwise.

Her pleasure at the ribbons had been gratifying, although he’d been taken aback both by the extent of her evident delight and by his own private satisfaction of her response. They were only ribbons. He was glad she liked them but it was scarcely cause to ignite an odd warmth deep in the pit of his soul.

He sucked in a deep breath and narrowed his eyes at the still-bustling forum on the opposite corner of this most prestigious square in Camulodunon. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t expect Morwyn to confide in him, but the things she had let slip didn’t add up.

If she’d been a companion—or, more likely, a slave—to a patrician child, then she would have been in another province, as Britain had only been occupied for eight years. Maybe Gaul—she had admitted as much when she’d mentioned the tutor.

Yet she acted as if Cymru was not only her homeland, but the only place she had ever been before traveling to Camulodunon. Why did she insist she had never experienced the Roman ways before when she’d spent most, if not all, of her childhood in a Roman household?

More to the point, why was he so interested? It didn’t affect his plans one way or another. And yet still he wanted to know how old she had been when she’d left Cymru. How long she’d been back. Why her Roman mistress had allowed her to leave, when the bond between them was so obvious.

Maybe she just wanted to wipe the experience from her mind. He could understand that. If she’d been abducted from her family while still a child, no wonder she’d reacted so furiously when he’d chained her like a slave.