Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (11 page)

In which case they were destined to travel in eternal silence. She wouldn’t lower herself to speak to him, never mind beg his forgiveness for an imagined slight to his honor. He possessed no honor and therefore such slight was impossible to give.

She tramped after him, her spine threatening to crumple after the punishing regime of the day. Gods, her back ached. How many times had she almost slipped into slumber, how many times had she caught herself slumping against the Gaul’s rigid chest?

And how often had she wished to simply remain lying against him, cradled within his unyielding arms, and allow her weary body to rest for a few precious moments?

Too often. It was humiliating. She caught up with him at the door and reassured herself, not for the first time, that the only reason such treacherous thoughts had crossed her mind was because of her exhausted state.

The entrance was small, nothing more than a space with which to conduct brief business. He accomplished that within moments, securing them a room for the night and a fresh horse for the morning. As with every other place they’d stopped, she was the recipient of fleeting sideways glances, expressions ranging from pity to complete disinterest, as if she were of no account.

She wasn’t sure which response was more insulting. Her bloodline was noble and her previous existence as an acolyte of the cursed Morrigan had always assured her of deference whenever she was among her people.

But of course, these weren’t her people. These were only Britons, and Romanized Britons at that.
Her
people would never surrender so easily to the enemy.

The Gaul shot her a glance over his shoulder, almost as if he could hear her thoughts. But he didn’t say anything, merely waited for her to reach his side before they entered the noisy tavern that led directly from the inn’s entrance. With a jerk of his head he indicated a table in the corner of the room, shoved up against the wall, and again waited until she moved in that direction. As if he didn’t trust her not to run off the moment he turned his back on her.

They sat facing each other. Raucous laughter and drunken voices vibrated through the air but silence screamed between Morwyn and the Gaul across the ale-stained timber table.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t need to speak to her. And she certainly didn’t need to speak to him.

“So we’re not eating in our room this eve?” Just because she didn’t
need
to speak to him didn’t mean she should suffer the rest of this interminable journey as a mute. Conversation would make the time pass more swiftly, and since she had no intention of pandering to his wounded pride, she wasn’t breaking her promise to herself. It
certainly
had nothing to do with wanting to hear his voice again, because if all she wanted was to hear a male voice, there were plenty in this heathen Briton tavern.

If he was surprised by her breaking the deadlock, he didn’t show it.

“Would you rather have?” He didn’t sound as if he cared one way or the other. But his intense gaze never left her face.

A warm tingle danced in the pit of her belly. She ignored it as best she could because it was obvious the Gaul had no intention of following up on the lust that had once simmered between them.

And she no longer wanted him to. Not after last night. And just because she still retained a modicum of desire for him was irrelevant.

“I have no opinion on the matter.” She accompanied her words by flicking an uninterested glance around the darkened interior at the rowdy inhabitants, but it was impossible to ignore the only person in the room who snared her interest. Sooner than she’d intended, her focus once again arrowed in his direction. There was the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, as if he found her remark amusing.

“I find that . . .” He paused. Deliberately. “Difficult to believe.”

Why did he smile at her? It made it hard to remember how vital it was to remain on her guard. Made it easy to forget that in his eyes she was nothing more than a spoil of war.

The reminder galled. “Why should you? You’ve made it clear you find my opinions worthless.”

“When?”

Morwyn blinked, unsure she’d heard him correctly. “What?”

“When have I made it clear your opinion is worthless?”

Was he serious? He didn’t look as if he were jesting. She expelled a disbelieving breath and rolled her eyes for emphasis. “You abducted me against my will. Or had you forgotten?”

“For your own safety.”

Arrogant Gaul. “You can believe that if you wish, but you know it’s nothing but a lie.”

He leaned back in his chair and his feet nudged against hers as he stretched out his long legs beneath the table. She refused to move to accommodate him, and refused to acknowledge the way her heart thundered in her breast at so slight a contact.

“Do I?” The quiet words were a challenge. She stared at him, unwilling to examine his accusation because, curse the foul gods, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

“If I hadn’t been injured, I would have been more than capable of continuing my journey alone.”

“But injured and horseless?”

She rapped her fingernails on the table as she clawed through her mind for a suitable response. And couldn’t find one. She decided to move on.

“You disregarded my wish to bathe in a river.”

“With good reason.”

“Ah.” She pounced on his words, rested her forearms on the table and leaned toward him. “So you don’t deny my opinion on
that
was of no consequence to you?”

“It was dark outside.”

She made a sound of disgust.

“The river backed onto a Roman settlement.”

That, she hadn’t known, but she wasn’t going to back down for the second time. “You could have stood guard over me.”

Again his lips twitched as if laughter threatened, and she stared at him in reluctant fascination, wondering why he found her amusing and, since he so obviously did, why he so studiously fought to hide it.

“I chose comfort over conflict.”

The memory of the bath slid into her mind, heating her blood. She would never admit it to this Gaul but she had enjoyed the experience of luxuriating in that hot tub.

Only as a novelty
. Given the choice she’d certainly never forsake the familiarity of her rivers and springs for decadent Roman bathing rituals.

The food arrived and with strange unwillingness she drew back from the table to allow the serving wench access. The girl’s breasts spilled from her untied bodice and Morwyn shot the Gaul a sharp glance, but oddly his gaze was still fixed on her, as if the sight of the wench’s nakedness enticed him not in the slightest.

Why did she even care whether he looked? It shouldn’t make any difference to how she felt, and yet it did. And the words hovering on her tongue—words condemning him for enslaving her last night as she slept—withered.

If she continued this conversation, she would win, for there was nothing he could say in his defense that would change her mind or the facts. So what was she waiting for? Why did she hesitate?

Was it because, despite everything, she enjoyed conversing with this Gaul? If she threw last night in his face, she knew, without question, their current fragile harmony would shatter.

Was she considering compromising her integrity for the sake of flirting with a man whose compatriots were directly responsible for the deaths of her fellow Druids?

Bren watched as subtle nuances of emotion flickered over Morwyn’s face. Suspicion, confusion and, finally, inexplicably, guilt. She didn’t have to open her mouth for him to know the direction of her thoughts. She’d be mortified if she realized how easily he could read her.

As the serving girl left their table, he waited for Morwyn’s next accusation. She may have broken their silence but she wouldn’t ignore the reason for it. He stifled a sigh. It had seemed a good idea at the time. A way to ensure she couldn’t escape should she wake while he was gone.

For some reason he hadn’t anticipated how vitriolic her response would be if he hadn’t released her before she stirred. But what had really pissed him off was the knowledge she was entitled to her anger. That he had no right to chain her like a slave. That no matter how many excuses he gave himself for his actions, not one justified treating her as a conquered spoil of war.

Her dark eyes narrowed and he waited for her condemnation. She’d obviously been waiting for this moment all day. If luck was with him, she’d tell him what she thought of him and then be prepared to move on.

But since he and luck had only the most fleeting of acquaintance, he wasn’t holding his breath.

“And what,” she said in a regal voice, never taking her gaze from his, “do the Romans call
these
?” She jabbed her finger at the various vegetables that had been served up with the more traditional British stew.

He stared at her. She wanted to know about the food on her plate? Why wasn’t she spitting venom at him for last night? It had darkened her features. Glittered in her eyes. Since when had Morwyn ever held her tongue for fear of angering him?

Something foul twisted through his guts. Was that the answer? That she now feared him? That she would join the others who cowed in terror before him? Had he ensured her continued company only to taint it irretrievably?

She leaned across the table. Her attitude wasn’t one of servility. What the fuck was going on?

“Should I call the serving wench back?” Her tone was deceptively innocent. “Perhaps she can list the ingredients for us.”

“Possibly.” His tone was guarded. It was rare he found himself in a situation where he wasn’t in absolute command. But in this moment he floundered. He had no idea what Morwyn was talking about.

She pursed her lips as if his answer didn’t please. “I shouldn’t be surprised if she’d be willing to show you all her ingredients personally.”

And now she’d lost him completely. He hoped his confusion didn’t show. Until now he’d taken for granted his ability to accurately read a situation. Gods, it was the reason he was still alive. The reason why he’d escaped being murdered a dozen times during the last three years.

Even though he enjoyed the conversations with Morwyn he knew how much she resented him, how she considered him her enemy. How she would sooner drive a dagger through his heart than offer him a modicum of trust.

That was why he didn’t allow her to keep her embroidered bag. He had adequate knowledge of healing herbs and potions, as any warrior worth his salt did, but Morwyn’s supplies surpassed the norm. He was under no illusion she would poison him within an instant were she given the opportunity.

And now she should be condemning him for chaining her. It was the logical continuation of their previous conversation. He’d known its inevitability as they bartered words on why he’d rescued her from Trogus, why he’d not allowed her to bathe in the river.

Yet she spoke of food. Of the serving wench. And for the life of him he couldn’t make any connection.

“I’ve no desire to examine her”—he hesitated for a moment—“ingredients.” He had the distinct impression Morwyn was referring to the serving girl’s half-naked breasts. Why? Was she attempting to divert his interest from her to another? Did she still think he’d force her against her will, despite how last night he’d ensured not so much as his foot intruded on her privacy?

Despite how he’d lain awake for hours battling an agonizing erection and sweat-drenched fantasies?

“Not to your taste?” She raised her eyebrows and began to eat the stew.

At least that was a straightforward question. “No.”

She chewed and swallowed, lips together, every action screaming of her high birth. Who was she, really?

“I suppose you prefer a demure little mouse who trembles at the thought of crossing her master.”

An odd notion occurred to him. Was she
flirting
? It had been so long since he’d bothered to notice such interplay between the sexes it was hard to recall the rules of engagement. But once, long ago, he’d enjoyed the pastime.

In another life.

“A mouse wouldn’t last long with me.” His voice was gruff and he scowled at his stew, unable to believe she really was flirting with him, the man she so blatantly despised. But if not, then what?

“Not a mouse, then.” She sniffed the wine and took a minute sip. “But clearly your preference is for a woman who defers to you in every matter. One who craves your protection and swoons if you so much as raise your voice to her.”

A dull ache wrapped around his heart. Squeezed like a vise. Bled him dry and tossed the useless husk aside.

Eryn, his first love, tiny and fragile, had looked to him in every matter. But she had been no timid mouse. And he would have carved out his heart before hurting her with word or deed.

Eryn. Her name whispered through his mind, tangled in his memories. As a boy he adored her; as a youth he desired her. And as a man he’d failed her.