Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (37 page)

Trogus stepped back. It appeared an involuntary movement. “Fuck you, Dunmacos. You never struck me as the type to defend the nonexistent honor of a fucking woman.”

Bren sheathed his dagger and stared at the other man until Trogus, jaw clenched, finally stalked off. Gods, he couldn’t wait for the day until he watched the last gurgling breath leave that piece of shit’s body.

Wandering through the market, Bren questioned why he wasn’t on the way to Caratacus, to pass on the information he’d gleaned from Camulodunon. There was no excuse. The praefectus had given him leave of absence. He wouldn’t be missed from the Legion.

And yet here he still was. Looking at ribbons and trinkets and trying to decide what would most delight Morwyn.

Morwyn. The reason he was still in the settlement.

His vision glazed as he stared at the jewelry displayed on the stall. Peasants and legionaries jostled him as they negotiated their way through the crowded market, but the noise of the populace, the stink of unwashed bodies and slaughtered livestock faded to a muted blur.

Morwyn had witnessed his suspicious actions last night. Had she been anyone else, he would have killed her without compunction. Witnesses were dangerous, even if they knew nothing of value. And although he’d been in no state to do anything when she confessed, he could have killed her as she slept.

But he had allowed her to live.

There had never been any doubt in his mind he would allow her to live. Even if she had, as he had momentarily suspected, overheard Gervas make his pledge. How could he murder her, when she put such trust in him? When she returned to him voluntarily? When she looked at him, last night, not with revulsion but with compassion?

When she had cleaned him, medicated him and held him in her arms?

He picked up a bracelet, similar to the one she had asked him to sell for her. Similar, but not the same. Hers was of much higher quality, the engraving on the gold more elaborate, the jewels more precious.

For the first time in three years doubt clouded his mind. He knew the double life he led couldn’t last indefinitely. Sooner or later, when his masquerade was in danger of collapsing, he’d have to leave the Legion for good, take up arms by Caratacus’s side. But never before had the idea of abandoning the Legion prematurely beckoned.

Until now. When the enticing notion of being able to take Morwyn with him to his king, of not having to lie by omission to her anymore, glinted in the black corners of his soul.

She had her kin waiting for her in her village. But when she discovered he wasn’t her enemy, that they were on the same side, there was a chance she’d go with him. She hadn’t turned her back on him when she thought he’d slaughtered his cousin. He still couldn’t believe she hadn’t left him to drown in his own vomit, yet she’d tended him as if he was worth something.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt as if he was worth something. Apart from his skills at deception and subterfuge and killing in the name of his king, what did he have to offer?

Nothing. But when he was with Morwyn she made him remember how he used to feel. Made him hope his sordid past wasn’t an irredeemable barrier to a less-fraught future.

As long as he ensured she never discovered the truth of that night three years ago, was it possible to imagine they might have a chance together?

It was midafternoon when he returned to their lodgings. The odd notion occurred to him how satisfying it would be for them to have their own dwelling. In his own village that had long ago settled into a reluctant peace with the Romans, far from this turbulent bloodied province.

Nothing but a hollow dream. He would never return to Gaul while Caratacus fought for freedom in this land. As long as his king needed him, Bren would serve. He owed Caratacus that, and so much more.

He owed the Briton king his sanity.

As soon as he opened the door to their room, prickles of alarm skittered across the back of his neck. It wasn’t the fact the room was empty. He’d half expected it to be so. Morwyn wasn’t the type of woman to sit at home all day, and although she hadn’t confided as to what she had done the previous day, he was content by the fact she returned.

But something was wrong. Instinctively his fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger as he stepped into the room. The sharp tang of an astringent cleanser assaulted his senses, but underlying he caught the unmistakable stink of vomit.

His fingers tightened their grip as he glanced swiftly around. The child’s—Gwyn’s—pallet was in the corner of the room. For some reason Morwyn had taken the girl under her wing. He hadn’t yet had the chance to talk to her about it, but there was nothing to talk about. If adopting a daughter made Morwyn happy, that was all that mattered to him.

The bed was rumpled. The few possessions he’d left in the room remained. There was no sign of a scuffle, nothing to indicate that Morwyn might not stroll back into the room at any moment, and yet still his senses spiked with unknown trepidation.

And then his eyes acknowledged what his subconscious had grasped instantly. Morwyn’s pack had vanished.

Bren found Trogus on the training field beyond the garrison, practicing archery. Sword drawn, he marched through the center of the campus, unheeding of the warning shouts or the spear that narrowly missed impaling his brain.

All he could see was Trogus. All he could hear was the enraged pounding of his blood against his temples. He thrust a young legionary from his path, ignored the glances cast his way. Concentrated on the oblivious back of his prey.

Trogus let fly his arrow, and Bren wrapped his arm around the man’s throat, jerking him back, crushing his windpipe. Trogus choked, gripped Bren’s forearm, but before he could regain his senses and go for his dagger, Bren flung him around and pinned him against one of the numerous training posts fixed in the ground.

The tip of his sword pierced the soft flesh at the base of Trogus’s throat. One section of Bren’s mind acknowledged that an unnatural silence had fallen across the campus. That every eye was upon them. That no one attempted to interfere.

The rest of his senses were focused on the auxiliary before him, who remained frozen against the post as if realizing one false move would be enough for Bren to end his misbegotten existence.

“Where is she?” His voice was raw and when Trogus continued to stare at him with wary incomprehension, Bren twisted the sword and drew savage satisfaction from the strangled gurgle Trogus emitted.

“Dunmacos.” The praefectus of his unit was by his side. But not too close, as if not convinced of his own safety. “This is hardly the time or place for an inquisition. If you have evidence against this man, then—”

“What have you done with her?”
The words were low but vibrated with an unnamed terror. A terror he couldn’t face; wouldn’t face because Morwyn had to still be alive.

Sly understanding gleamed in Trogus’s eyes, but he still retained the wit not to move a muscle. “I haven’t seen her since that day in the forest.”

Bren bared his teeth in a feral snarl. “Tell me where she is, you fucking piece of shit. Or I’ll carve it out of you.”

Trogus shot a glance at the praefectus. “I’ve been here since last we spoke, Dunmacos. I’ve six dozen men as witnesses.”

Lies. Bloodlust pounded through his veins, demanding satisfaction. But what a hollow, meaningless satisfaction to watch Trogus’s putrid blood seep into the earth. It wouldn’t bring Morwyn back.

“Dunmacos.” The praefectus’s voice was sharp. “He speaks the truth. Is this connected to the matter we discussed two days ago?”

The thud of his heart vibrated through his chest. The rush of his blood deafened his ears. Trogus’s face blurred. The campus shrank. All he could see was a vile blackness gaping before him. Remorseless and grasping into infinity.

Morwyn hadn’t been abducted. She had left him. Voluntarily.

With a rough jerk he withdrew his sword and the world crashed back into focus. Every auxiliary, legionary and centurion stared at him in open speculation. He could read their minds as easily as if they shouted the words from the watchtowers. Dunmacos, the man with ice in his veins, the one who never raised his voice but never had to, had finally cracked.

“Fucked off, did she?” Trogus wiped the blood from his throat and flicked it with contempt to the ground between them. A sneer crawled across his features. “Woman was a bitch but at least she had some sense.”

“Dunmacos.” The praefectus grasped Bren’s sword arm and dragged him around. Perhaps he, unlike Trogus, had seen how close Bren was to thrusting the length of his sword through Trogus’s filthy mouth. “Get off the campus and cool your head. I don’t want to have to throw you in gaol. Do you understand?”

Bren wrenched his arm free and marched with deliberation across the silent campus. No one dared utter a word or cross his path. Never before had a field stretched so interminably into the distance.

For a few deluded moments he’d imagined a future with Morwyn. Growing old with a woman who, although she didn’t know all of his sordid secrets, knew enough of his wretched existence and was still not repelled.

A bitter laugh escaped, scraping his throat like acid. He should have known better. At the first opportunity she had run. Afraid he would turn on her the way he had turned on Gervas.

He left the garrison, blindly walked the dirt-packed streets of the settlement. It was better she’d gone. Now he didn’t have to concern himself with her safety. He could concentrate on his duty instead of constantly being distracted by the image of Morwyn’s face, the feel of her silken hair, the captivating sound of her laugh.

Somehow he arrived back at their lodgings. He went to their room and sat on the bed, forearms across thighs. Staring blankly at the rush-covered floor.

For three years duty had sustained him. Given him a purpose, a reason for having survived when Eryn had perished. But deep in his gut the familiar knot of rigidly contained resentment tightened, and for once he allowed the treacherous thoughts free reign.

This life crucified him. Even in the beginning when he’d still been riding high on the bloodlust of having slaughtered Dunmacos, the reality of the existence he’d assumed sickened him.

But he’d given his word to his king. And the knowledge of what he owed the Briton outweighed his own considerations.

It was no longer enough. For the first time since Eryn’s death the constant nightmare of his failure to save her had receded. The immovable rock in his chest had crumbled. He’d recalled how it was to speak without thinking, to laugh without guilt. To dare dream of a future without killing.

Because of Morwyn
.

And she had left him.

He pulled a pouch from his belt. Tugged it open and withdrew its precious contents. The elegantly engraved gold bracelet with its tasteful jewels glinted up at him. Mocking him. He hadn’t sold it when she’d pressed it on him. He’d had some vague notion of returning it to her someday. But now, he never could.