Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (39 page)

The morn dawned. Bren lay on the bed he’d so recently shared with Morwyn and stared up at the discolored ceiling, a dull sense of inevitability heavy as a rock in his gut.

There was no escape from his fate. He was pledged to Caratacus until death. The interlude he’d enjoyed with Morwyn was just that. An interlude. It could never have led anywhere. Even if she hadn’t deserted him.

He expelled a measured breath. He had information to convey to his king. Information he should have conveyed the previous day. Except he’d been distracted by a woman.

But no more. She had gone. And with her had vanished his last chance at grasping a shred of comfort in this life.

Slowly he opened his fist. Her bracelet had gouged his palm, but the indentation would soon fade. The cavern she’d carved into his heart never would.

Trogus scowled as the party of exploratores left the settlement shortly after dawn. Always the same fucking mission. To try to find where the heathen Briton king hid among the forests and mountains of this barbaric province.

They’d scoured the area a dozen times. Never found anything. But there was a subtle shift in mood among the officers, as if they were in possession of information that could change the balance of this battle. Except it wasn’t a battle, because Caratacus was a fucking coward who lacked the balls to face his enemy on the field.

All he did was set lethal ambushes, use the local topography to his advantage, send out assassins on covert missions. It was almost as if he had advance knowledge of the Legion’s plans.

Not that Trogus gave a shit about the Roman Legion, but such tactical maneuvers could easily impact his own safety. And he cared a great deal about
that
.

The sun had passed it zenith as he descended, some way ahead of the other four exploratores, the sparsely wooded hill into the verdant valley, and the edge of the same forest where Dunmacos had rescued the whore. Gods, what wouldn’t he sacrifice for the savage pleasure of running his sword through the other man’s guts? It even rivaled his need to seek vengeance against the woman for the death of his tribesman.

From the corner of his eye he caught sight of a lone horseman entering the forest. He stiffened, pulling his mount to a halt. The distance was significant but he’d know that bastard anywhere. It was as if the gods had heard him, and granted him a boon.

Twice he had drawn Trogus’s blood over the Cambrian bitch. The third time, it would be Dunmacos’s lifeblood, from Trogus’s blade, pumping into the earth.

The vision, as potent as any of those when he’d fantasized fucking the whore, jerked his cock to attention, an unwelcome side effect and yet another reason to exact vengeance from the other auxiliary.

He turned to a fellow exploratore who had just drawn alongside. “I’m going to check out the forest beyond. Saw something suspicious.”

“You want to change our detail?” He made as if to call the others, and Trogus flicked his hand dismissively,

“No. I’ll check it out and get back to you. No need to make it official.”

“Fuck up and you’re on your own,” the other man said by way of agreement, turning to follow the others who were making their way to the forest at a point some distance from where Dunmacos had entered. Trogus dug in his spurs and galloped after his nemeses.

He planned to ambush the other man. Yet despite the acidic desire to prolong Dunmacos’s torture, he had no desire to be caught in the act of murdering one of his own. So, an arrow through the neck. A dagger across the throat. Heavy mutilation to the face and removal of chain mail to prevent identification.

And a hasty burial among the undergrowth to hide the body. With luck, scavengers would strip the flesh from the bones before it was ever discovered.

A flash of armor ahead. A glimpse of equine flank. He urged his horse forward using thigh and spur, bow in one hand, arrow in the other. Waiting for Dunmacos to sense his presence, to turn and fight, to see who it was who was ending his filthy existence.

Dunmacos continued onward, as if oblivious. Trogus’s fingers stilled on his bow, disconcerted by his prey’s behavior. Was it a trick? Even though Trogus kept in the shadows and concealment of trees, it was surely impossible for a scout of Dunmacos’s experience to be unaware of his presence.

But still the other man continued onward, scarcely glancing left or right, his mount’s passage unerring. As if Dunmacos knew exactly where he was going.

The thought crawled through Trogus’s brain like a drunken slug. Nudging him with a clouded knowledge. And then the question formed.

Where
was
Dunmacos going?

Slowly Trogus lowered his bow, but still kept hold of his arrow. He knew Dunmacos had been given leave of absence—fuck knew why. Although rumors circulated the praefectus, far from bestowing unjustified leave had instead charged Dunmacos with a covert mission.

Perhaps, then, he was following up a lead. But the supposition sounded hollow. Because even if Dunmacos was tailing a suspect for the praefectus, how did he know
exactly where he was going
?

Farther into the forest. Branches scraped against his face, tugged at his legs. An eerie silence descended, as if a blanket had been cast across the small creatures that scuttled in the undergrowth, the birds that nested in the trees. The certainty slammed into him. This part of the forest was cursed.

A shudder inched along his spine but he couldn’t throw the feeling aside. He wanted, more than anything—even more than claiming Dunmacos’s life—to turn and flee this silent place. Before it swallowed him and his existence was forfeit.

Sweat trickled into his eyes; his fingers were slippery on his weapon. Curse this. He didn’t care where Dunmacos headed. They had traveled deep enough. His body would remain undiscovered for days.

Stealthily he drew back his bow, prepared to let fly. But before he could, Dunmacos, quite literally, vanished.

The following morn, far from being invited to join military practice or meet Caratacus—something Morwyn had half expected as her right—one of the Elders from the previous night entrusted her with the care of half a dozen clearly peasant children who all looked younger than Gwyn.

Morwyn bit back her frustration, but only just. The Elder offered her a faint smile, as if she understood Morwyn’s sharp intake of breath for what it truly was.

“They need to be kept occupied while we arrange for the final exodus,” she said. “And while they are not of Druidic blood, they can all be taught of the Morrigan. You’re the ideal teacher, Morwyn. You are, indeed, the answer to our prayers.”

Morwyn inclined her head, but respect was the last emotion bubbling in her breast. The Morrigan had brought her here, in order to be a
childminder
? She was relegated to watching over the young, and not even noble young at that, while her contemporaries worked alongside the Briton king on his
great mission
?

Rigid with affront, she followed the Elder’s directions to a nearby stream, where she could supervise the children’s cleansing rituals. And there, instead of merely handing out her supplies, she sent them on search-and-find missions to discover the raw ingredients nearby. Secretly impressed by their willingness to learn, she taught them how to process their haul. Truly, it was remarkable how quick-witted they were, considering they possessed not a drop of noble blood.

As the sun climbed to its pinnacle, she considered her thought. In the past, she had only ever taught the children of other Druids or nobility. Peasant children didn’t have the luxury of obtaining an education. As soon as they were old enough they were set to work, helping their parents, and that was the way it had always been.

Was it the way it would
always
be?

So much had changed. Morwyn was still a noble but she had no home. She was still a Druid but her clan was fragmented. These children, Gwyn included, had been born into poverty. Did that mean they should be denied the means to improve their minds, to learn to the best of their ability?

A shiver trickled along her spine, and oddly she recalled Carys telling her, with defiance, how she taught Branwen the secret Druid ways. How Morwyn had been shocked at the blatant blasphemy.

And how now, looking at the eager little faces before her, she could suddenly understand why Carys, although only half-trained, had succumbed to the urge to pass on her knowledge.

It was what they did. Teach the younger generation. Without that, they were nothing. Their ways would die.

The Romans would win.

Her breath escaped in a shocked gasp and she pressed her hand against her breast. Children, whether they were of Druid or peasant blood, were the future. How could she, how could any of them, withhold their knowledge from any of their people who wished to learn?

Glancing around, to ensure they were alone, she smothered the ember of guilt and began to tell them of the Creation.

Not the diluted version that peasants had told among themselves for generations. But the full story. The sacred heritage of the Druids.

For a moment Trogus froze, bow raised, body taut, eyes frantically searching the section of forest where just a moment before Dunmacos had ridden.

Nothing. Heart jackknifing, he dug in his spurs, urged his horse forward, out from the concealment of trees.

Dunmacos didn’t leap from an overhead branch or barrel into Trogus’s side from a hidden trap. Trogus held his erratic breath, strained his ears, but could hear no distant snapping twigs of muffled progress. Could feel no vengeful eyes upon him. No gut-deep conviction of surveillance.

Cautiously he edged between two massive oaks, and vertigo slammed into him, almost unseating him, and he clutched the front of the saddle for balance, his weapon digging into his hands.

Gods, he was going to vomit. The trees spun, the earth undulated, and distant, disembodied voices swam in his mind.

“Caratacus has been expecting you, Bren.”

“I was unavoidably detained.”

Trogus grimaced, crouched over his saddle. He recognized that voice. It was Dunmacos.

Caratacus had been
expecting him
?

Instinctively, Trogus hauled reins and retreated from the oak trees. Instantly his head cleared, stomach calmed. And his brain went into overload.

He’d discovered the hidden whereabouts of Caratacus. And Dunmacos—
Bren?
—had led him there.

Despite the danger that thudded all around, a disbelieving grin cracked his face. Dunmacos, favorite auxiliary of their praefectus, was nothing more than a fucking traitor. The one who had been selling secrets to the enemy. Putting his own countrymen’s lives at risk.

The grin faded. He could return to the garrison, share his information. The Commander would send the elite of his Legion to wipe out the rebels. Crucify Dunmacos.