Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (35 page)

Silence spun between them. Finally she curled her fingers around his hand, tightening her grip when he made to pull away. And then, suddenly, his fingers crushed hers as if she were his lifeline to sanity and he never intended to let her escape.

Foolish thoughts, without base in reality.
She
was the one who no longer wanted to escape. Why did she continue to delude herself with half-truths and fabrications? She had no intention of leaving him for Caratacus. Not yet. Not until the Legion was in imminent danger of collapsing and she had no other choice but to join the rebels in the final onslaught.

The darkest corner of her soul prayed such a moment would never arrive.
Traitor
whispered through her heart but it was faint, insubstantial. Because all she could feel, in this moment, was her Gaul’s pain. And it crucified.

“Why?” His voice was raw with ale and retching but not slurred. No matter how much he’d drunk this night in order to forget his actions, it had affected only his body, not his mind.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I missed you.” Her voice was soft but it rasped through the rancid air and he recoiled, as if she had physically punched his face. She flattened her free hand against his chest. Against his heart. “I thought you’d left me.”

His lips twisted into a mockery of a smile. “I should.” But his hand covered hers, pressing her more securely against his heart. Belying his words.

For a moment she lost herself in the beauty of his eyes. Eyes that, unguarded, showed shadows of secrets so horrific that madness glinted. But they were still the most mesmeric eyes she had ever seen.

Perhaps he had ensnared her by some ancient magic of his forefathers. But she knew the truth. Whatever it was she felt for him originated from her own heart.

“If you left me”—she leaned closer to whisper, in case a malevolent god lingered and overheard her treacherous confession—“I’d hunt you down, Gaul. I wouldn’t let you escape me so easily.”

His calloused palm clenched, crushing her fingers against his chest. “You should leave, Morwyn. Find traders from your village and go home with them.”

“And yet I choose to stay.” The words echoed around the room, her confession, her betrayal. She should go to Caratacus, but she intended to stay. She should kill her enemy, but she would sooner kill herself.

There was no chance of a life together, and yet she’d do everything in her power to find a way.

“If you knew . . .” His voice cracked and he closed his eyes as if he could no longer bear to look at her. Silence vibrated with words unsaid.

She swallowed around the constriction in her throat. “I do know.”

His lids lifted as if weighted down with the sins of his ancestors. But he didn’t speak. Just stared at her as if she didn’t know what she was talking about.

A ragged breath tore through her lungs. “I followed you. I saw. And—still I remain by your side.”

This time the silence thudded in her ears, dangerous and deadly, and still her Gaul remained mute, staring at her as if he now thought she had lost her mind. But within a heartbeat she watched comprehension wash over his features as the realization of her words finally hit him and wary disbelief mutated into shocked unbelief.

“You saw.” But it wasn’t a question, at least not for her. It was as if he needed confirmation that he’d not misunderstood. “You
heard.
” He sounded torn between horror and raw desperation. As if her confession shook the foundations of his soul.

Heard what? No words had been spoken between them. At least, not at the end when she had stumbled upon them. “You don’t have to tell me why you killed him.” Except she wanted him to explain why he’d murdered his blood kin. But she wanted him to tell her without her asking. And somehow she knew he never would. “Do you still trust me enough not to poison you?”

He looked at her as if she had just said something incomprehensible. As if her open acknowledgment of Gervas’s death had paralyzed what remained of his wits. Slowly his fingers slid from her hand and encircled her wrist. His thumb grazed her pulse, and despite his ravaged state she had to battle the urge to wrap her arms around his neck, draw him into her embrace.
Comfort him.

For slaughtering his cousin.

“Yes.”

That was all. A single word that said so much. She had the insane desire to weep.

“Then wait here. I’ll build up the fire in the kitchen and boil water. I’ll make you a tea to soothe your stomach and astringent wash to cleanse your mouth.”

She began to stand and he slowly relinquished his grasp on her, as if reluctant to allow her to leave. And then his grip tightened on her hand and his head lifted from the wall. Green eyes flayed her with the depth of their despair and his jaw tensed, as if he battled against the want to confide and the need for covertness.

Want won.
“I didn’t kill him.”

Later, in bed, Morwyn stroked the short black hair of her Gaul as he slept against her breast. A constant pain bathed her heart, a pain born of the bitter knowledge that she had fallen in love with a man sworn to destroy not only the freedom of her people, but her Druidic heritage.

She pressed her lips against his brow and cradled his head in an oddly protective gesture. He wasn’t of Cymru. He wasn’t even a Briton. He was from Gaul, and the Gauls had been conquered by the Romans four generations ago. Her Gaul wasn’t a traitor because he had joined their Legion. He was just carving out a career. How could she condemn him for that?

As far as he was concerned, the Romans were a segment of his people. If Caratacus didn’t drive the invaders from Cymru and Britain, would they, in time, become assimilated to the Roman way?

Her heart twisted at such a foul vision. She didn’t want the old ways to be trampled underfoot, to be forgotten in the hazy streams of memory. Just because she had issues with her gods didn’t mean she wanted them replaced by the heathen idols of Rome.

Aeron had betrayed his people by lying to them, by pretending one thing while planning another. But her Gaul had never pretended to be on her side. He’d never pretended to be anything other than what he was. A Roman auxiliary from Gaul.

A shiver slithered over her arms. Was she truly contemplating turning her back on everything she had ever known? Considering the possibility of forsaking her duty to fight for freedom—
because she had fallen in love?

Her breath hissed between her teeth. Why was she continuing to lie to herself? There was nothing left to consider. She would stay with her Gaul. Face the consequences of her severed loyalty.

And not think about the inevitable battle that was sure to occur between Caratacus and the Legion.

She was back in the Morrigan’s sacred grove on the Isle of Mon.
But she didn’t want to be here. Not again. Would she forever be haunted by these nightmares? Desperately she tried to awaken, sinking to the grass and digging her fingers into the pungent earth. She would not be ruled by her fear.

A breeze drifted across her face. She frowned at her hands, pulled them from the ground and stared at them in confusion.
What was she doing?
Scattered memories fluttered through her mind, a sense of urgency, of denial, but she couldn’t grasp the essentials. Couldn’t recall why she had sunk to her knees. Why she had the fading need to flee . . . somewhere.

The sunlight bathed the grove, growing brighter, blinding. Squinting, she looked up and panic slithered through her soul. The Morrigan stood in the center of the grove, a warrior maiden in all her youthful, terrifying beauty, her face turned upward to the perfect blue of the sky.

The great goddess extended her arm, and her sacred raven appeared from the forest to settle on her wrist. Storm clouds streaked across the sky, obliterating the sun, casting ominous shadows across the land. Morwyn shivered, tried to rise to flee, but couldn’t move her paralyzed limbs.

This wasn’t what she had witnessed before.
The thought tumbled through her mind, almost making sense if only she could grasp its true meaning. Mesmerized, she could only stare at the goddess as terror and awe wrestled for supremacy within her breast. She’d turned from the Morrigan. Refused to honor her. But now the goddess had summoned her to her presence, and all the wonderful and fearful stories she’d ever been told of the goddess’s deeds flooded her mind.

Raw power, as elemental as the earth herself, surrounded the Morrigan and throbbed in the air like a living entity. Morwyn sank farther to the ground, trying to make herself invisible to the goddess’s wrath. For so many moons she’d deluded herself that the goddess was weak. Insignificant. Easily manipulated by the twisted will of Aeron.

Only now did she face the truth. Only now, when the great goddess slowly turned and looked at her, eyes blazing with rage and vengeance, could Morwyn finally confront her most guarded of secrets.

She
was the weak one.
She
was insignificant and too easily manipulated by Aeron, their High Priest, the man she had trusted with her life and faith. And she had projected all her self-loathing and disgust onto the Morrigan. Because the Morrigan hadn’t peeled the scales from her eyes. Had allowed her to blindly follow Aeron without sending a sign or warning.

The raven soared into the darkening sky, circled three times before returning to his goddess. A single black tail feather floated to the ground by Morwyn’s clenched fingers, and iced fear froze her veins.

The Morrigan
had
sent her a sign. She recalled it as vividly as the moment it had happened. Sitting with Carys two days before the Sacred Spiral destroyed their cromlech, a raven’s feather had crossed their path.

She hadn’t understood its significance. Had thought it predicted war and death, and it had, but it had also meant so very much more.

Devastation. Betrayal. Why hadn’t she meditated? Learned the true meaning behind the message? Would it have made any difference to the outcome of that night?
What else could she have done?

The Morrigan spread her fingers, her palm directed at the ground between them. Instantly a raging river bubbled to the surface, bisecting the grove, and Morwyn scrambled back before the water sucked her under.

Goddess
. The soundless plea she’d used until the exodus to Mon slipped easily through her panicked mind. She didn’t know how or why but this river was familiar. The mountains, rising in the distance behind the Morrigan, were familiar.

Eerie shivers raced along her arms. Had she been here before?

And then she was beside her goddess, walking on the mountain next to the stone ramparts that afforded them protection from the enemy below. War cries split the air but they were distant, unconnected from her. Warriors fought, bodies fell, but it was as if she watched it all from behind a veil, untouched and isolated from the reality of the events unfolding.

The Morrigan halted in the midst of the carnage. Fury and betrayal vibrated from her, and Morwyn stumbled as the mountain shuddered in response. She knew why her goddess was angry. Because Morwyn had betrayed her, not only by discarding her but by taking a lover from their enemy.

Heart hammering against her ribs, she took a stealthy step backward. Deep in the most hidden corners of her heart she’d always known of the Morrigan’s strength. No matter how hard she’d tried, Morwyn had never quite managed to obliterate her ingrained reverence for her deities. They had been a part of her heritage since life first erupted from the womb of the earth.

She would face it now. Her gods had been deceived. Her gods had roared in vengeance. But they were still as powerful as they had ever been, as powerful as they would ever remain.

The Gaul had been her revenge on the Morrigan. She had intended to use him for her own pleasure and then leave him, dead or alive—such detail hadn’t been important.