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BOOK: Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02]
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She flexed numb fingers around her dagger, then gripped it more securely when she felt his hold upon her wrist momentarily lighten. Her limbs were deadening but if he gave her the slenderest of opportunities, she wouldn’t hesitate to slash open his throat.
“Why? So you can send your band of Gallic mercenaries to slaughter more innocents?”
“No. So I can verify your words.”
If she directed him to a nearby village, would he truly spend time discovering if she spoke the truth or not? She doubted it. He was delivering dispatches for the military. He’d told the filthy dogs who’d ambushed her he intended to use her to warm his bed during the journey.
And he was alone. No, he wouldn’t waste time verifying her word when her word was of no account, when all he saw when he looked at her was a woman he could use for sexual satisfaction.
“Two days’ ride west. I’ll tell you no more than that.”
His eyes narrowed as if he didn’t believe her. “And where were you heading?”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “To the new Roman fortification. The civilian settlement is always hungry for our goods.”
From somewhere deeper in the forest a wood warbler’s shivering song shattered the taut silence. Before she realized his intention his forearm pinned hers securely to the ground, bringing the length of his body against hers. Heavy, masculine. How long had it been since she’d been crushed beneath a man, since she’d been held, touched,
wanted
?
The grip around her wrist increased beyond endurance but still she held on, despite the stabbing pains, despite the way her vision flickered. He’d have to kill her before she relinquished the only weapon she possessed.
With his free hand he prized her deadened fingers from the hilt of her dagger and she could do nothing to stop him. His body enslaved her from ankles to thighs, hips to breasts, and now that he gripped her dagger, he released her throbbing wrist.
She panted into his dark, foreign face. A face that wasn’t Roman, but beneath his helmet he had the hated Roman military hair. Short, stark. Nothing to grip in lust or fury.
“What are you waiting for?” She flung the words at him in her own language. “Fuck me and have done with it.”
And she wouldn’t embrace him. Wouldn’t wrap her legs around him. Wouldn’t succumb to the despicable need spiraling through her blood; the need to have a man in her arms, a man inside her body.
Rape was abhorrent to her people. To their gods. And especially to the Morrigan. She’d endure his assault because there was nothing else she could do, but it would mean nothing. It wouldn’t touch her. Wouldn’t break her.
And by the sacred blood of all her ancestors, she’d find a way to slaughter him afterward.
For a long moment their eyes clashed. His cock seared her, hard and solid and demanding despite the barrier of his tunic and her ruined gown. Heat ignited; muscles clenched; her flesh trembled for satisfaction.
He raised himself onto his hands, his groin still melded with hers. Tempting her with the savage delight he could offer.
No
. Sex with the enemy could never be a delight. She tried to fist her fingers but they were still numb, still uncoordinated. She glared at him instead, daring him to comment on the way her body softened beneath his in blatant invitation.
A smile twisted his lips. As if he knew exactly what was going through her mind. Curse her despised gods, but how she would relish plunging her dagger into him, castrating him before ending his miserable, misbegotten existence.
He rolled off her, kneeled beside her and contemplated her as if she were his own personal property. She refused to smooth down her crumpled gown or wipe her hair and the filth from her face. Let him look long and hard at how his compatriots had mistreated her.
“I’ve no intention of taking you in the open forest, Celt, where anyone could stumble upon us.” He raked his glance over her and she gritted her teeth, refusing to acknowledge the foul ripple of disappointment that shuddered low in her gut at his words. “I’ll wait until you beg me.”
Chapter Two
Ignoring the bone-deep ache in her wrist, she pushed herself upright. Beg him? She would sooner tear out her tongue than ever admit such a treacherous desire.
“Since you have no use for me”—and the way his cock had burned her tender lips proved how much of a lie
that
was—“then let me go.”
He stood up. She had to crane her neck to maintain eye contact but it was all she could do for the moment. She didn’t yet trust her legs to support her. She’d rather remain seated on the ground than stumble to her knees before him.
“Let you go?” He appeared to contemplate her words. “Alone, in occupied territory? I don’t think so.”
Air hissed between her teeth. “I can take care of myself.”
He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The disbelieving glance said enough.
She flexed her fingers, blocking the pain of her abused wrist. She was so close to the heart of Caratacus’s resistance. She could feel the call of freedom vibrating in the air, enticing her, if only she could find the right path.
And this Gaul intended to drag her with him to—wherever his cursed duty took him.
Without warning he hunkered before her and she glowered into his face, ignoring without success the harsh line of his jaw and high, aristocratic cheekbones. In another lifetime, before the Romans had invaded Cymru, she might have looked twice at this warrior. Might have invited him into her bed, enjoyed his charms and battle-hardened body.
But now he was a creature of Rome. And no matter how her deprived clit ached for fulfillment she would never lower herself so irredeemably as to slake her need with one such as this.
Because she had no intention of ever slaking such need again.
Breath gusted. Of course she hadn’t. She had made a vow; she would honor that vow. It was no hardship. She was simply disorientated by the attack and this Gaul’s unexpected denial of his base urges.
His arrogance.
Yes, his arrogance. To assume she would ever beg for his touch. Crave his possession.
“I don’t have time to return you to your village.” His voice punched her back to the present. “Or escort you to the garrison. And I won’t leave you here at the mercy of any passing legionary.”
“It wasn’t a legionary who murdered my fellow Dru—traders.”
Heat flared through her at her error but he appeared unaware she had almost given herself away.
“No. But on your own and in your current state, you’re fair game for any man wanting a rut.”
She staggered to her feet, ropes of fire searing her thigh where the other filthy auxiliary had kicked her. “And you don’t want to
rut
?”
He stood also and deliberately examined her dagger, as if it held great interest to him, before sheathing it beneath his chain mail. “I’m not that desperate.”
Not that desperate?
Pride snaked through her, stiffening her spine, momentarily obliterating the burning pain in her thigh, the throbbing ache of her ribs.
“Then you have no reason to encumber yourself with my presence. I’ll return to my village and relay the bloody murder of my countrymen.”
He shrugged as if he no longer wished to discuss the matter. “You’re coming with me whatever your personal thoughts on the matter. You have no horse, you can barely stand and, in case it’s escaped your notice, you no longer have any weapons.”
No horse? She glanced wildly around, but the only mount nearby was the cursed Gaul’s.
Her heart thudded against her bruised ribs, every beat an agony of pain and indecision. He was right. She could barely stand. There was no chance she could walk for any distance, certainly not back to Mon.
But she couldn’t go with him. It was tantamount to accepting his authority, to accepting she’d been enslaved.
His calloused fingers grazed her naked shoulder, where her gown had been torn from her, and she jerked back. She didn’t want his touch. Couldn’t take his touch. Not when a part of her wanted
nothing more
than his cursed touch.
The Gaul’s jaw tightened as if he took offence at her response. “Get changed.” His voice was harsh. “Your things are there.” He jerked his head to her pack, which had been ripped open and the contents strewn across the forest floor.
Next to the broken body of Drustan.
Stomach twisted, regret speared through her heart. It was her fault he was dead. Her fault they were all dead. If she hadn’t been so determined to seek out Caratacus and avenge Gawain, they would all still be safe on the Isle of Mon.
Safe. Hiding from the enemy once again. The way they had hidden from the enemy before.
The way she’d vowed she would never hide again.
Swallowing the bitter taste of defeat, she hobbled toward the scattered items. She hoped they’d left her medicine bag intact. If she was going to escape, she needed to deaden the agony in her leg and the multitude of other aches and pains flaring across every particle of her body.
And slip something into the Gaul’s waterskin. Something to incapacitate him so she could take his horse, equip herself with weapons and find the rebels.
With a smothered groan she sank to her knees and began to gather her things. She heard the Gaul mutter an oath and stamp toward her. “Here.” He thrust one of her gowns into her arms. “You’ll have to forgo tending your wounds until we stop for the night.”
Instantly she became aware of her exposed back, and heat rushed through her at the way she’d allowed him unfettered access to gloat over her battered flesh. She slung him a resentful glare but he missed it because he was snatching up her possessions from the ground as if they were a personal affront to his existence.
For a fleeting moment an odd warmth wormed through her sore heart at his apparent thoughtfulness. And then reality returned.
He wanted to hurry her along. So he could start his journey.
She shuffled around so her back faced him and gingerly tugged the ruined gown from her shoulders before pulling the new one over her head. Curse the gods, her limbs were stiffening at an alarming rate. She’d have to poison him quickly, before they even left this forest, so she could find safety to rest before fatigue overwhelmed her.
As she tossed her bloodied gown against a nearby tree, he once again hunkered before her, her pack clasped loosely in one large hand.
“Are you ready? We have a long ride ahead before the first inn.”
His words might have extended sympathy, if his voice wasn’t so hard and his expression so impassive. But she didn’t want his sympathy. Only a modicum of trust so she could overpower him with her herbal magic.
“Yes.” She glanced toward her fallen Druids. “But aren’t we going to prepare them for their journey onward?” She may have lost faith but her companions deserved their rightful ceremonies. And while she was preparing the sacred ritual, she’d find a way to contaminate the Gaul’s supplies.
“No.” His response was as uncompromising as it was unexpected. She stared at him in disbelief. He might be a Gaul, but he was still of Celtic blood, and unless prevented by battle they never left their dead kin to the mercy of carrion crows.
“No?” Had she misunderstood?
He gave an impatient sigh. “I’ve no time for this. Their gods will grant them safe passage for so honorable a death.”
“Honorable?” She snatched her pack from him and rifled through it, searching for her supplies of herbs and roots. “They hid behind trees. That’s not the Roman way.”
“No, it’s the Gaul way.” He held an intricately embroidered bag in front of her nose. “I’ll take care of this. I don’t trust you not to attempt to poison me as soon as my back’s turned.”
She refused to give him the satisfaction of responding. And since her options were severely limited, she’d pretend subservience, wait until he lowered his guard and then revert to her original plan.
“Where are you going?” Her voice sounded haughty even to her own ears. But she’d never been a slave. Never deferred to any but senior Druids. If she wanted to fool this Gaul, she’d have to try harder than that.
But she still couldn’t help glaring. He’d have to be a village simpleton not to guess her true feelings toward him.
He eyed her, as if weighing whether she deserved an answer or not.
“Camulodunon. It’s three days’ hard ride from here, and I can’t afford a slower pace to accommodate you.”
Camulodunon
. Her seething resentment against her captor vaporized as prickles of shocked excitement skittered through her blood.
Reports had reached them on Mon that their beloved princess, Morwyn’s dearest friend, had escaped the Emperor’s wrath and migrated to the prosperous Roman town.
She’d never thought to see Carys again. Had accepted their lives had splintered and their paths were no longer destined to cross.
Anticipation bubbled deep in the pit of her stomach. This could well be her only chance of traveling to Camulodunon. Once there, surely she could hunt down her friend, discover how she was. Perhaps even persuade her to return to Cymru and fight beside the Briton king?

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