Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 01] (17 page)

That gave her plenty of time to explore. And while she might not find Maximus—since he was probably inside his fortification—at least she could learn more firsthand about how the Romans lived and how they treated her people, instead of relying on gossip and Aeron’s bitter diatribes.

Morwyn took her hand, pulled her close. “I have newborns to bless, Carys.” Although she was but twenty-seven and not yet fully trained, Morwyn was the Druid closest to the Morrigan whom their people could now access.

Carys glanced around. “I’ll be at the market.” It had been so long since she’d wandered through markets. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed such a simple pleasure.

Morwyn’s grip tightened and Carys raised her eyebrows.

“Carys, you’re not here to wander through the market.” Morwyn sounded exasperated. “Go find your lover. With him you’ll be safe. But whatever you do, don’t allow yourself to be accosted by any of the Roman scum.”

“I’ve no intention of allowing myself to be so accosted.”

Morwyn gave an impatient sigh. “Just stay away from them. The barbarians won’t think twice about abusing you.”

“Even with this revolting blanket over my head and keeping my eyes to the ground?” When Morwyn began to scowl Carys patted her arm. “Very well. I promise not to go to that market.”

Because she had noticed something of far more interest. The heavy gates to the fortification, which she could see even from this distance due to its elevated position, were open.

And both civilians and military walked freely between those gates.

Gripping the blanket beneath her chin, heart pounding with a combination of exhilaration and terror, Carys entered the fortification. The path she trod was smooth, flat and unbelievably wide, and disappeared deep into the enemy camp.

And yet how could this be called a camp? It was another town. A walled town with the famed Roman roads, stone buildings lining each side and a public market where both her people and soldiers thronged.

She sucked in a deep breath. A tangled sensory overload assaulted her, confined animals and compressed humans intermingled with the foreign scent of an occupying army.

Belatedly she remembered she was supposed to remain inconspicuous. Standing in the middle of the road, with her head tilted to the sky and sniffing the intoxicating odors around her, was hardly the best way to achieve such an end.

That was when she became aware of the three young Roman men leering at her. She hurriedly lowered her lashes and turned on her heel. Such modest behavior went against her nature, but she couldn’t risk drawing attention to herself. It would put all Druids at risk if soldiers arrested her within the perimeter of their stronghold.

She decided to hide amid the crowd milling around the market. And then a rough hand pulled the blanket from her head.

“Told you she was a fucking Venus, didn’t I?” The same rough hand gripped her arm and pulled her round.

Her heart stuttered against her ribs at the contact, her breath compressed within her lungs, and her palms, clenched into fists as she grasped the blanket, felt eerily clammy.

Don’t look up.
The demand pounded through her mind and she stared fixedly at the man’s broad chest. So long as he didn’t see her strange eyes, he wouldn’t think her anything out of the ordinary. It was only her eyes that made her so memorable. All she had to do was keep her lids lowered, no matter what the provocation—

“Look at that face.” Another one of them spoke, sounding faintly awed. “Like a Vestal Virgin.”

The first one laughed and jerked her forward. Sweet Cerridwen, would no one intercept? She darted her glance to the people busy at the market, but no one appeared to be taking much notice.

“I saw her first.” With that, he tore the blanket from her and tossed it aside. Dressed in her pale green gown with the intricate golden embroidery, she felt exposed. Naked.
Vulnerable
.

“Fuck, I’m so hard I could take her right here on the street.” His coarse words appeared to amuse his friends, and sent an iced shiver of terror along Carys’s spine, freezing her churning stomach.

She had been born into the chieftain class, where respect for her status was as natural as the air they all breathed.

But not only was she a princess by virtue of her birth. She was also a powerful Druid in her own right, and she had never known a moment’s fear for her safety since to harm her was to dishonor Cerridwen herself.

But that was before. When all she met worshipped their gods, abided by their laws and afforded her the regard to which she was entitled.

“Come on, my beauty.” He finally spoke in Celtic and, with his free hand, groped her breast. Without thinking, she swiped it away, repugnance and fear skittering through her blood as she glanced wildly around for means of escape.

The only enemy she had encountered since the invasion before today was Maximus. And even though she’d expected death at his hands, her soul hadn’t reacted with such primeval terror at his touch.

The men laughed as if her resistance afforded them great entertainment.

“Little cat showed her claws,” said the first one, his hard fingers biting into the top of her arm. “We don’t mean to hurt you. We just want a bit of fun.”

“Unhand me.” She spoke in Celtic, but to her intense shame her voice trembled. And still she kept her lids lowered when every particle of her being wished to glare into this bastard’s face while she gutted him with her dagger.

Her dagger that, instead of being sheathed at her hip, lay uselessly buried within her medicine bag.

A fatal error on her part.

Once free from the Legatus’s interrogation concerning his private life, Maximus strolled through the market. The transportation of goods was becoming less hazardous by the day, since the natives ceased their ambushes and the roads ensured swift access from the ports.

He glanced at the goods on offer. Finally luxuries were arriving that would please the officers’ wives and daughters who made little secret of how much they hated being stuck in an outlying province of the Empire.

The jewelry glittered. He paused. His wood nymph liked jewelry. Closer examination proved the stones were merely colored glass, but the gold was real.

He picked up a delicate bracelet, scrutinized the workmanship. Imagined decking her in his family’s emeralds and pearls, priceless pieces that would fade into insignificance beside her ethereal beauty.

But he didn’t have immediate access to them. And he wanted to buy his woman a present. Seeing matching earrings, he bought them as well, and as he secured his purchases, safely wrapped in a pouch, onto his ornate belt, he wondered what Aquila would have made of it had he been around.

As Maximus left the market to take the main road back to the barracks, his attention snagged on a group of loud-mouthed, jostling legionaries crowding around a girl. For a heartbeat he dismissed the scene, since it was a familiar occurrence. Girls were becoming more open to accepting attention from the soldiers now. It was always so. And yet something made him pause. Take a second look.

Disbelief seared through his brain as he caught sight of the girl’s golden hair. Without conscious thought he swung on his heel and marched over, his conviction growing with every measured step.

One of them swayed to the side and he saw her standing there, as silent as a statue of Venus. She was looking at the ground, as if the legionaries intimidated her.

A cold black rage filled his mind, momentarily fogging his vision and stilling his stride. They would soon learn better than to even look at his woman, far less invade her personal space.

Another picked up her length of braided hair and buried his nose in the unbound tresses. “Smells of nectar.”

Maximus curled his fingers around his vine stick. Gods, did the dog know how close he was to losing that hand for daring to touch her?

“I’ll wager her cunt tastes sweeter than any nectar,” said the third, and the rage surged from Maximus’s mind, chilling his arteries, swelling the cavity in his chest.

He stepped beside her. She didn’t move a muscle, but the three legionaries drew back as one.

“Sir,” said the one who’d manhandled her golden hair.

He ignored the piece of shit, focused on the foul-mouthed cretin. Imagined ripping out his tongue and smashing his vocal cords for daring to so insult a lady.

His lady
.

“Go.” His voice was even. Deadly. Two of the legionaries hastened to obey.

The third began to grin. “Sir, we were just having some fun. The girl didn’t object; she was—”

Maximus’s fist connected with flesh and bone and cartilage, and the legionary was on his knees with a bloodied nose before he had time to react.

“Did I give you leave to answer me?” Maximus’s voice was still even. He watched the legionary scramble to his feet. A fucking disgrace to his cohort, even if his cohort was one of the less prestigious ones.

“No, sir.” The legionary stood ramrod straight, blood dripping over his lips and chin.

Maximus reeled in the bloodlust raging through him, which demanded satisfaction worthy of the offense. And if he discovered this misbegotten maggot had physically assaulted his Celt, then a broken nose would be the least of his punishment.

“Meet me after evening mess.” For answering back a superior officer, extra duties went without saying. Maximus would have him cleaning out the latrines for the next month, as well as doubling his training shifts.

Finally he focused his attention on her. She still hadn’t moved, still didn’t look at him. He slid a finger beneath her chin and forced her head up, and a thread of unease slithered through his simmering rage.

He knew his Celt was proud, was instinctively aware she’d hate him to witness any weakness. And if she hid her face because she cried, he would personally flog the legionary responsible.

She glared up at him, her eyes sparkling jade and amethyst, but no tears streaked her flushed cheeks. Without conscious thought his touch became more possessive, cupping her jaw, his thumb nudging the corner of her mutinous lips.

She was here. She was safe.
She was his
. His head began to angle toward her, aching to savor those lips against his, to reassure himself she truly was uninjured.

And she jerked back, severing contact. His jaw clenched, and his fury at how close she’d come to harm sizzled with renewed vigor.

“What the fuck are you doing, walking around unprotected?” He ground the words at her in Latin, too incensed to bother with translation.

The look of unadulterated loathing she gave him increased his temper.

“Would you keep me under lock and key, Roman?” Her Latin dripped venom. “Is that how you treat your women? Lock them away or abuse them in public?”

Mars help him, he would kill those useless turds who had accosted her and string their guts up for the crows.

“This is an occupied land, Celt.” He fisted his hands to prevent himself from gripping her shoulders and giving her a thorough shake. Or perhaps he’d forgo the shaking and instead drag her into his arms and hold her close, safe within his protective embrace.

“Yes. I know.” Every word a stinging condemnation.

“Look at you.” He raked his gaze over her, from the top of her shining, golden head, to her full breasts that gave a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage, the dip of her waist, the swells of her hips. “It’s a wonder you had only three legionaries sniffing around you.”

Something shifted in those mesmerizing eyes of hers. As if she didn’t fully understand his meaning.

“I kept my eyes lowered.” She sounded oddly defensive. “I shouldn’t have drawn unwarranted attention. I don’t know why I did.”

She didn’t know
why
? He could scarcely credit it. “Do you not possess a mirror, Celt?” Perhaps she didn’t. He would rectify that instantly. “Have you never looked at yourself in a still pool?”