Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 01] (6 page)

But she was here. And to have arrived before his men meant she must have left the settlement at dawn. Again, why would she return to the place where she had previously been captured?

The renegades he’d interrogated had not been connected with Branwen. They had, however, eventually admitted to plotting a full-scale rebellion, and, while he admired their courage, such treason couldn’t be allowed to go unpunished.

But Branwen didn’t have the backbone for such activities. Although he’d been mildly surprised that, as yet, Aquila hadn’t managed to persuade her to share his bed in exchange for medical assistance for her grandfather.

He entered the wood, mentally recalled the map of the area the scouts had detailed, and stealthily made his way to the hidden glade.

Maximus saw her at the exact moment the glinting stream became visible. He sucked in a shocked breath, heart pounding in his throat, echoing through his brain, and instinctively retreated behind the nearest tree.

It was impossible she could have seen him. Swiftly he removed his helmet with its distinctive, eye-catching plumage, and once again caught her in his line of vision.

Branwen was on her knees before his golden wood nymph, her fingers fluttering over the nymph’s feet as if she were worshipping her goddess.

“Forgive me, my lady.” Branwen’s voice came to him clearly, but his focus was on the other. He hadn’t imagined that haunting beauty. In reality, she was even fairer than he recalled. Lust, hot and heavy, roiled through his arteries, thickening his shaft, splintering any hopes he’d harbored of a cheap whore being able to cool the fever steaming his blood. There was only one who could quench the unnatural flames consuming him, who could satisfy the craving that clawed through every particle of his being. And she stood barely twenty feet from him.

She crouched, grasped Branwen’s hands and pulled her to her feet. “It wasn’t your fault.” Her voice was as soft and musical as he remembered, and sent darts of sharp pleasure coursing through his body.

“The soldiers polluted the holy Cauldron with their presence.” Branwen sounded on the verge of tears. “It’s my fault they found her.”

“Cerridwen is not found,” his Celt said. “Her Cauldron’s not polluted, Branwen. Any fault in this is mine, not yours. I should have been here for you. I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath, and Maximus watched her breasts swell above the square cut of her gown. “Did the soldiers hurt you?”

Branwen shook her head and sniffled. “But the centurion frightens me.”

His Celt frowned. “The centurion?”

“He wants to help.” Branwen sounded confused. “But how can the Roman understand what ails my grandfather? I trust only you with his health, my lady.”

His Celt handed Branwen a leather package. “The barbarians don’t have our knowledge, Branwen. Continue administering this to your grandfather. I’ll be here if you ever need to return.”

A smile twisted Maximus’s lips. So his lady was a healer. He decided that pleased him. But not as much as he intended she please him in the not-too-distant future.

He’d let her go once. He had no intention of allowing her to escape again. Not until he’d tasted the sweet nectar of her lips once more, or speared his fingers through her long hair, pulling it loose from its restraints and feeling the silky softness envelope him in a halo of gold.

“Go now.” His Celt held a note of command in her tone. “But not the way you came. Roman soldiers swarm upon the hill. Take the long route home.”

His breath stilled, caught midchest at the significance of her words. How did she know where his men were? Did she have spies posted about the countryside?

Branwen bowed her head, clasped his Celt’s hand and bestowed a reverential kiss. She then scurried away in the opposite direction.

His heart thudded against his ribs, echoed through his brain. His golden nymph continued to stand by the edge of the sparkling spring as it bubbled from a cluster of rocks, her attention focused on the direction Branwen had fled. He could emerge, capture her. She could do nothing to deny him. And yet he remained rooted to the spot, captivated by her serene profile, unable to deny her mystical hold.

She turned toward his hiding place. Stared through the trees at him. He knew she couldn’t see him through the shadows of the trees and yet he felt exposed. Naked.

Intolerable
. No man made him feel that way, much less a mere woman. Even a woman as beautiful as his golden wood nymph.

He saw an enigmatic smile touch her lips, as if a thought had amused her. And then she spoke. “You can come out now, Roman barbarian.”

Anticipation sizzled through Carys’s blood as she waited for her Roman to emerge from the wood. She couldn’t see him, but he was there. Somehow, she could
feel
him, deep in the most sacred recess of her soul, the same way she could feel when the wise Cerridwen merged with her spirit.

Flee
. The command shivered through her mind, sharp with the acrid scent of fear. She had escaped the enemy once. To tempt fate twice was foolish in the extreme.

Except she hadn’t tempted fate by returning to the waterfall. She was at the Cauldron, in the holy glade of her beloved goddess. And her Roman had discovered her there.

He marched from the shadowed depths, magnificent and terrifying in the strange, exotic uniform of his conquering race. The sun glinted on his polished breastplate and enhanced the rich scarlet of his cloak, but Carys focused on his short black hair, on his hard, unsmiling face, and finally on his unblinking blue gaze.

“We meet again.” She spoke in her mother tongue, for some reason unwilling to let him know she was fluent in Latin. She clasped her fingers together so he couldn’t see how they trembled. And yet despite the shrill voice that shrieked through her mind, commanding her to turn and flee before it was too late, she wasn’t afraid of what this Roman might do to her.

Only of what the consequences to her people might be.

That should be enough reason for her to seek instant escape. And yet she remained where she was, allowing him to close the distance between them, allowing her lingering chances of freedom to slip into nothingness.

“It seems the gods wish our paths to cross, my lady.” His tone was sardonic, but as rich and sensual as she recalled. As erotic as any of the dreams she’d enjoyed over the last two nights.

“My gods or yours?” Her breath was tight in her chest, constricting her lungs and squeezing her vocal cords. She hoped he couldn’t hear the catch in her voice, or the way her heart pounded against her ribs. She didn’t want this Roman to know just how fundamentally he affected her.

He paused before her. So close she could reach out her hand and touch his battle-scarred armor. “Perhaps our gods work in harmony.”

“
Our
gods?” Had she misheard? She jerked her gaze from the sensual outline of his lips and stared into his eyes. Despite her covert Latin education, she agreed with the general consensus that Romans were barbarous heathens who acknowledged no true gods—not even the all-seeing, most divine goddess of all, the Morrigan—only their own craven idols.

But if that was so, how could this Roman even suggest he acknowledged the existence of her gods?

He reached out, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, and lifted the end of her braid. “Perhaps,” he said, as the unbound strands of her hair slid through his fingers, “the same gods answer to different names.”

He only touched her hair. And yet she could feel his touch lighting her soul. And his words ignited her brain.

“Different names,” she breathed. A revolutionary concept. Almost blasphemous. And yet—strangely intoxicating, the way she felt when Cerridwen imparted a sliver of knowledge so illuminating as to be for her mind only.

His hand fisted around her hair. “Will you tell me your name now, my lady?”

It would be so easy. And yet there was power in her name. She might desire this Roman with every breath she took, but she couldn’t trust him.

“Not yet.” The words slipped out before she could prevent them. Before she realized what they were, what they could mean.
Not yet?
Would she, then, be able to trust him at some point?

The corner of his mouth lifted in a brief smile. “Then you intend to tell me another time?” He wound a length of her braided hair around his fist, and she stumbled forward until there was barely a breath between them. “In that case I won’t demand your compliance now.”

She drew in a deep breath. The earthy aroma of woods and leaves and sacred water diminished beneath the tantalizing scent of virile male, scrambling her mind. What remained of it. “I will never comply with your demands, Roman.”

His blue eyes ensnared her. Surely they were the eyes of a god.

“Not yet.” And then he smiled, the smile of a man supremely confident in the outcome of his prediction.

Entranced by his wordplay, she smiled back. “Not ever. I comply with no man’s demands.”

His teeth flashed as if he found her comment humorous. “You must have driven your father to distraction.” And then his smile vanished, and the effect was as profound as if storm clouds covered the sun. “Do you defy your husband also, my lady?”

He had mentioned a husband before. Did the thought of her owning a husband irk him that much?

It shouldn’t matter. And yet a thrill chased along her spine at the knowledge this proud Roman disliked the thought of her being bound to another.

“If I possessed a husband, he would know better than to issue me such demands.”

His eyes darkened and his grasp on her hair tightened, but she refused to stumble before him again. Instead she resisted the pressure he exerted and embraced the needles of pain dancing across her skull.

Because the pain held a twisted element of pleasure, that spun through her mind and ignited strange tremors along the back of her neck, over her shoulders and across the exposed swells of her breasts.

“You’re widowed?” His voice held no softness. Just a raw demand to know.

His smoldering gaze stoked her arousal and the tremors wrapped around her nipples in a sensual caress, tightening the sensitive peaks, straining against the fabric of her gown with unbearable need.

“I’m not widowed. I’m my own mistress, Roman.”

Something flashed in his eyes, something dark and dangerous, as if her words held unknown meaning to him. He took a step toward her, loosened his hold on her hair and slipped his hand around the nape of her neck.

Calloused fingers curled around her vulnerable flesh. Strong. Demanding.
Possessive
. She tipped back her head so she could look into his face, but also to show him his predatory action didn’t intimidate her.

He fascinated her. Intrigued her. Drew her as inexorably as a moth was drawn to the deadly flame. Like the moth, she would be burned. Unlike the moth, she knew her fate in advance.

And still she had no desire to flee.

“Under whose protection are you?” His voice was low, smoky, and wrapped its erotic spell around her senses.

“Cerridwen protects me.” As she whispered the words, her fingers trailed along his strong, uncompromising jaw, and shivers chased from the tips of her fingers, along her arms, and to the throbbing peaks of her nipples.

His jaw clenched. Barely discernible stubble grazed her flesh and she cupped her palm around him delighting in the evocative scent of his utter maleness, the texture of his roughened skin and the hard, unyielding planes of his bronzed face.

“Do you live out here alone?” His eyes never left hers. His fingers scorched her nape. And the vibrant feathers upon his helmet brushed the swells of her breasts.

As if in a dream, Carys rose onto her toes, allowing her fingers to trace over his high cheekbone, higher, across his temple. Her breath caught in her throat as she tentatively caressed his short black hair.

Sensation sizzled through her fingertips. Softness of the red squirrel’s fur yet abrasive, like his jaw. Intoxicating. She ran her palm over his head again, delighting in the strange combination of textures.

“If I don’t have you soon, I fear for my sanity.” His voice was raw with need. For her. Thrills shivered through her, and her need matched his.

He gave a mirthless laugh and pulled her roughly against him. His armor dug into her soft flesh, and she curled her free hand around his forearm. Such primal power in his arms. And yet he made her feel safe.

“You’d do more than tremble if you understood me,” he said grimly, and only then, with a rush of awareness, did she realize he was speaking Latin. “Gods. You could do nothing to stop me from taking you. Right here. Where you stand.”

She wouldn’t want to stop him. She scraped her nails over his nape. Curse his foreign armor. She couldn’t feel his body at all, and she wanted to feel his body. Wanted to see it, touch it. Taste and lick it. Do everything in reality that she had been practicing in her dreams for the last three moons.