Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (12 page)

“In that case I’ll find myself a Roman woman.”

Morwyn shot him a sharp glance but he was concentrating on devouring his food, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. She frowned, took another mouthful and tried to work out why he’d suddenly retreated.

She’d enjoyed baiting him. To see him at a loss for words was highly entertaining. Especially when it was obvious he struggled to comprehend whether she was being serious or jesting. Had he never flirted? Or was he simply incapable of it?

They ate in silence for a few moments but tension skittered through her blood, scraped along her nerves. How could he just sit there, ignoring her? He’d taken her from Cymru for his own purposes and then not bothered to follow through.

And now he wasn’t even talking to her. She shifted on the hard seat and flung him another glance. He wasn’t even
looking
at her. So why did he insist she accompany him to Camulodunon?

She drained the wine, and the noise from the tavern echoed through her mind. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant but she had no intention of passing out as she had last night. What she needed was fresh water to clear her head, but it appeared such a basic need was lacking.

Irritation mounted. When he’d disarmed her in the forest his arousal had been evident. He’d even told that filthy dog who’d been intent on rape that he was taking her to warm his bed at nights. And when she bathed before him, he’d been riveted.

So why did he ignore her? Why didn’t he take her last night?

Since the age of fourteen, almost half her lifetime ago, only one male had ever spurned her. But Aeron, the High Druid and ultimate betrayer of their people, had never shown any interest in her sexually.

On the other hand this infuriating Gaul had. And now that she was in his power he chose to slight her.

She speared a foreign vegetable and chewed it viciously, as equally savage thoughts pounded through her mind. A distasteful certainty coalesced and no matter how she tried to dismiss the notion it gained momentum and flooded her injured psyche.

He wanted her. And resented the fact. Because she was nothing like the women he usually lusted after. Meek, subservient.

Roman
.

The thought of being compared with a Roman woman and
found wanting
was more than she could stomach. She pushed her plate aside, pride seething. If that was the type of female he preferred, then she had no use for him, in or out of bed.

For a moment the thought hovered, jangling her nerves. And then she realized the incongruity of her thought and heat scalded her cheeks.

She had no use for him out of bed. The only reason she willingly stayed with him was because he gave her safe passage to Carys. And fucking him was only a pleasant side benefit. A way to get back at the Morrigan.

Except they had yet to fuck
.

Her toes curled, fingers clawed. Curse the gods, why did she care so much? She had been without sex for many moons. To insult her goddess by embracing her enemy would be enjoyable but if it didn’t happen, it made no difference.

Against her better judgment she flicked him another dark glance. He was watching her, his face expressionless, as if anticipating her making a bid for freedom.

Oh, she would make a bid for freedom. When the time was right. And if he continued to treat her as an undesirable encumbrance, she’d slash his throat before she left too.

She ignored the fact she had no dagger. Ignored the real possibility he would leave her chained the entire time they were in Camulodunon. She’d find a way to get back at him because how dared he fight his desire for her? How dared he despise the fact he lusted after her?

Morwyn turned her back on him in bed, her body rigid with affront at his continued distance. He hadn’t even bothered procuring her a bath. Instead they had washed in a bucket of lukewarm water, and even if he had allowed her to go first, she still felt ill-cleansed.

As he extinguished the last lamp and the room plunged into darkness she allowed her muscles to slowly relax. But even that was an effort because every nerve stretched in awareness at his close proximity. The heat emanating from his body.

The chill of the space between them.

No shackle imprisoned her ankle.

She clenched her hands. Forced her breath between her teeth. This journey was testing her sanity to its outer limits. While on Mon, she’d been approached on several occasions by men wanting more than friendship. But, despite her body’s need, she’d never been tempted to take them up on their offers.

Her need to scorn the Morrigan had been greater.

But now, lying in bed in the dark, all she could think of was the Gaul. How he would feel. How he would taste. And the most despicable thing of all was she knew, deep inside, that wanting him had nothing to do with wanting to abuse her goddess’s divine gifts.

She was back in the Morrigan’s sacred grove on the Isle of Mon. The grass was sharp green, the sky vivid blue, every color so vibrant her eyes ached. Somewhere in the back of her mind, beyond the reach of consciousness, she knew this wasn’t real. Knew it was just another dream. But when Gawain came to her and took her hands, relief, woven through with remorse, sliced her heart.

“I’ll find the Briton king, Morwyn. And fight for our freedom the way we should have fought, before Aeron created his cursed spiral. Before he concealed us from the Romans.” The last words vibrated with fury. With loathing at how the Druids had been prevented from protecting their people.

No dream. This was a memory. The last time she’d seen Gawain alive before he’d left the Isle to seek out Caratacus.

“Let me come with you.” The words spilled from her lips even though she knew his answer, as if this memory demanded to be replayed over and over, an endless loop, despite her knowledge of how it would all end.

His fingers tightened around hers. She could feel their strength as if he truly stood before her and held her hands, but still ethereal wisps of precognition fluttered in her mind. Distorting the moment. Confusing her ability to distinguish between reality and reminiscence.

“No.” He released her and stood looking down at her, as if committing her to memory. “I need to go alone.” He hesitated for a moment as if debating his next words. “I need to get away from you.”

She watched him turn and walk away, proud and alone, and her heart ached. No matter how she longed to leave this Isle and join the rebels, she couldn’t go with Gawain. He deserved, at least, the right to leave on his own terms.

The sky darkened; the air chilled. Shivers raced over her arms as shadows lengthened and the trees thickened, becoming dense and impenetrable. Unformed terror gripped her, twisted her guts, sent her stumbling backward.

Run
. Desperately she tried to turn, to flee, but her limbs were paralyzed, rooting her to the spot. She could do nothing but watch as the clouds rolled across the threatening sky, as thunder rumbled ominously in the distance and as a formidable mountain rose from the blackened trees.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, panicked and painful. A terrible foreboding snaked through her blood, formless yet tangible. Unknown yet terrifyingly familiar. As if she had witnessed what was to occur countless times in the past, and would continue to witness forever into eternity.

Water splashed her feet and she leaped back, breaking the paralysis, and looked down. A raging river slashed across the land, dividing her from the mountain; a river of murderous intent, tainted with scarlet.

Lungs contracted, throat closed. She jerked her gaze up and stared at the massive stone ramparts on the far mountain. Had she been here before? Was this real, or a dream? A memory her waking self had forgotten?

War cries slithered into her consciousness and her perspective instantly altered. Now she was on the mountain, behind the ramparts, looking down as the hated enemy forded the deadly river. Arrows arched across the sky, an endless torrent, but it meant nothing. Would get them nowhere. She didn’t know how or why the certainty gripped her in a remorseless vise. Only that it did. Only that she needed to escape, that she needed to find someone. That she needed to
warn the others
.

She pushed her way through faceless warriors as panic mounted and sweat drenched her clammy skin. Up ahead a familiar figure came into view and relief swamped her, momentarily deadening her limbs and causing her mind to spin.

“Gawain.”

He didn’t hear her, continued issuing orders to another. She stumbled over fallen bodies—where had all the dead come from?—pushed others from her path. She had to reach Gawain. Had to warn him.

But no matter how fast she ran, she could get no closer to him. Always he was beyond her grasp, beyond her vocal range. She watched him briefly embrace another man before turning his back, a show of utmost trust, and fathomless fear coiled around her throat.

The faceless warrior drew his dagger and it glinted like sunlight caught in a waterfall, before he raised his arm and plunged the deadly blade into Gawain’s back.

Strong arms enfolded her, held her securely against an unyielding expanse of masculine chest. Her heart thundered against her ribs, crushed her lungs, caused air to gasp from parted lips.

A dream. Just a dream. Her panicked mind repeated the mantra as Gawain fell to his knees, as his blood pooled on the ground, as his assailant vanished into the roaring throng of disoriented warriors.

And yet, as always, conviction seared her soul that this was more than a figment of her imagination. More than a random, repetitive dream. Gawain was dead, murdered by one he trusted. Murdered by one of their own, even as the enemy advanced.

A dry sob scraped her throat, and instinctively she clutched at the muscled arm that encircled her waist. “Gawain.” The whisper rasped into the silence of the retreating nightmare, the darkness of the endless night. But the solid body shielding her back didn’t dissolve into the fevered recesses of her mind.

Heated breath fanned across her nape, causing shivers to race over her vulnerable flesh.

“You’re safe.” The low voice rumbled against her ear, deep and decadent. “I’ve got you, Morwyn.”

The lingering terror faded as awareness trickled through her brain. The Gaul held her in an intimate embrace, his hard body meshed to hers, his erection pressed securely against the small of her back.

Her breath stumbled, heart tripped and then thudded with painful intensity. Without conscious thought her fingers fanned across his forearm, and tremors of delight rippled through her blood at the abrasive texture of his skin and hair against her palm.

Firm lips drifted across the hollow where neck curved into shoulder. “You’re safe,” he repeated, voice husky. His arm tightened almost imperceptibly around her. “Don’t be afraid.”