Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (16 page)

“Here.” His voice was husky and for one insane moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Here, in public. And she wanted him to because then, in her mind, she could pretend it was a farewell.

Instead he pulled her medicine bag from his pack and handed it to her. For a moment she stated at it, uncomprehending. He’d taken it from her because he didn’t trust her not to poison him. Did this gesture mean that now he
did
trust her?

He let out an impatient breath as if her non-reaction irritated. “You need this, Morwyn. For your womanly requirements.”

She dragged her gaze from the bag to stare into his face. He was frowning and looked harsh, uncompromising, as if the slightest wrong word from her would cause him to cut her throat.

Slowly she held out her hand and he dropped the embroidered loop over her palm. He considered her his captive. Had tethered her like a slave. And yet he was returning fundamental power to her, by giving her the means to control her own body and destiny.

Slaves had no such rights. And she knew, from observation and rumor, that Roman men had long ago stripped their women of all primal feminine knowledge—if, indeed, they had ever possessed it.

Her Gaul worked for the enemy. But he hadn’t embraced all of their twisted culture. An uncomfortable obstruction closed her throat, as if ancient grief choked her and she couldn’t think why his gesture touched her so profoundly.

After all, she didn’t need the contents of her bag. Carys could give her what she required in order to cleanse her womb of her Gaul’s seed.

“Thank you.” Her voice was as husky as his. His green eyes entranced, as they had the first time she’d seen him. Somehow she knew that, no matter how many summers or winters she saw, she would never forget the hypnotic shade of his eyes.

His stone-carved expression softened by an almost infinitesimal degree. So slight she wondered if anyone else could even notice.

“This doesn’t mean I trust you not to attempt to poison my food.” His voice was low, for her ears only, and again the corner of his mouth quirked as if attempting to smile.

She forced her lips to curve. It was far harder than it should have been. “Oh, there’s no fear of that, Gaul. We’re still days from Cymru. I’ve no desire to be stranded so far from home.”

This time, for one brief breath-stealing moment, he flashed her a true smile, and again she was staggered by how much younger, how much less battle weary, he looked.

She doubted he was any older than her. And somehow, inexplicably, that realization caused the dull knot in the pit of her stomach to tighten.

“Then I’m safe for another few days.” He turned to leave, then suddenly faced her once again and cradled her jaw in a fleeting, tender gesture before swinging on his heel.

A ragged gasp tore from her lips and she hugged her waist as she watched her Gaul disappear around the corner.

The thought lingered, probed deep into her mind, worried around the edges of her consciousness.

Her Gaul
.

A shiver trickled along her spine, caused the hairs on her arms to rise in disbelief. Since when had she started to think of him as
her
Gaul?

Morwyn opened the door of the bedroom and glanced along the deserted hallway. She’d half wondered whether the innkeeper had been instructed to lock her up, but obviously not. Perhaps, then, he’d been ordered not to allow her to leave the inn on her own?

She would soon find out.

Heart thudding, although she wasn’t sure whether through anticipation at the prospect of escape or regret at betraying the Gaul’s trust, she slung her medicine bag over one shoulder and pack over the other and left the inn without being accosted.

And how absurd to feel she was betraying his trust. He had abducted her. He had no right to keep her against her will, and she had every right to walk out on him at the first opportunity.

Her fingers strayed to her bag. Somehow, the simple fact he’d given it back to her . . . changed things. She couldn’t quite work out why, just that she no longer felt entirely justified at deserting him.

She smothered a groan at her jumbled thoughts and glanced over her shoulder. She wasn’t deserting him. The sooner she found Carys and they formulated plans to return to Cymru and join the rebellion, the sooner this uncomfortable sensation of
loss
would pass.

But she couldn’t entirely ignore the realization that she would have felt so much better if the Gaul had told the innkeeper to keep her a prisoner. If, instead of simply walking out of the inn, she’d needed to use subterfuge and cunning.

With a deep breath she straightened her shoulders, tilted her jaw and marched toward the market. She’d take a quick look around the town first, take stock of the populace, before deciding whom to approach with her inquiry.

Carys was a distinctive-looking woman. Morwyn didn’t have any doubt she’d soon find someone who could direct her to her friend’s whereabouts.

Morwyn stared up at the monstrous temple that dominated this entire sector of the town. It sat on a podium, twenty sweeping steps above where she stood, a heathen display of columns and arches and vulgar statuary.

She expelled a shaky breath and wiped her hand across her sweaty brow. She’d been wandering around the town for too long already, and was no closer to deciding whom she could approach for information.

Her idea of asking a Celtic elder had come to nothing, since she hadn’t found any. Were they all in hiding from the conquerors? Or had they been slaughtered?

A group of Roman men, dressed in long white togas, strolled past. Would they know of Carys? Her lover had been a centurion, but rumor insisted he’d been promoted to the senatorial ranks.

She didn’t fully understand the complexities of the Roman military, but did know her friend’s lover possessed power. It was very likely these men would know his name. But even if she could bring herself to speak to them, she was under no illusion as to how she’d be treated.

Gods. Why had she imagined it would be a simple task to track Carys down? In the forest she’d thought Camulodunon would be just a slightly larger version of the settlements she was used to. A place where, with her connections, anyone could be found. But she was no longer in Cymru where her status ensured her questions would be answered with respect.

And this was getting her nowhere. She’d go back to the second, far larger, marketplace she’d found, the one next to this offensive temple, and make discreet inquiries of the stallholders. She hadn’t spoken to any of them before because they were all dressed as Romans, but now that she thought about it, how likely was it that they were?

Perhaps they merely dressed that way, in order not to draw attention to themselves. And she supposed she could understand that. Since leaving the tavern she’d been subject to countless sideway glances. Even a few lecherous gropes from lewd-mouthed bastards that she’d swiftly taken care of.

A pity she didn’t still have her dagger. What would her Gaul do with her dagger now she had left him? Sell it? Or would he keep it as a memento of their fleeting night together?

“Mistress Morwyn?”

The breathy whisper penetrated her mind, the words so utterly unexpected that for a moment she remained frozen to the spot. Who would address her in such a manner so far from home?

“Is—is that you, mistress?” Now the voice quavered, as if afraid it had made a fatal error.

Slowly she turned. A dark-haired Celtic girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen summers, gazed at her with a tentative smile. A smile that inexplicably wavered, only to be replaced by clear horror.

Morwyn ignored the urge to step back, because despite the girl’s strange behavior there was something vaguely familiar about her. “Yes, I’m Morwyn.” She smiled in an attempt to alleviate the girl’s distress. “You know me?”

The girl swallowed and visibly attempted to collect her scattered senses. “Yes, mistress. From Cymru. You’re the chosen acolyte of the Morrigan herself.”

Morwyn’s smile began to ache. “Yes.” But no longer. “What’s your name? What are you doing here?” And more important, did she know of Carys’s whereabouts?

“I’m Branwen.” She blinked a couple of times, as if trying to refocus. Gods, what was the matter with the girl? “I live here with my grandfather and the Lady Carys.”

“Carys?” Morwyn gripped Branwen’s shoulders, excitement pumping through her blood. “You must take me to her instantly, Branwen. Can you do that?”

Branwen gave her an odd look, as if she couldn’t understand her urgency. “But of course, mistress. That’s why I spoke to you. Carys is just back there—in the forum.”

Bren waited with mounting impatience in the antechamber of the basilica. The building, constructed under the pretext of allowing the local tribal aristocracies to be responsible for their own administration and decision-making, in reality was little more than a base for the military stronghold.

He ignored the Celtic civilians who drifted through the chamber. The traitors who embraced the enemy way of life and coveted both prestige and social advancement through Roman bureaucracy. While the people they allegedly served choked on the yoke of enslavement.

When freedom swept the land, their collusion would not go unpunished.

A minor official strutted across the mosaic floor and looked at Bren as if he were a cockroach. “The Tribunus Laticlavius will see you now.” He jerked his head to indicate where Bren should go.

Without deigning to respond, Bren approached the half-opened door. Tribunus Laticlavius. A derisory laugh rattled inside his brain. The Romans set such stock by their victories and triumphs and yet they thought nothing of appointing a raw boy, who knew nothing of the bloody reality of war, into a position of such potential power.

Based solely on his family connections and blood.

The Roman, dressed in a white tunic with a wide purple stripe to denote his senatorial rank, had his back to Bren. Hands braced on the edge of his desk, he was apparently studying detailed cartographies.

“Sir.” It wasn’t said from respect. Only to inform the Roman he was no longer alone in the room. The Tribunus straightened, rolled up his maps and turned.

Bren scarcely managed to keep his expression blank as shock punched him in the gut. This was no green boy, but a full-grown man. Warrior hard, horrifically battle scarred, and with piercing blue eyes that caused eerie shivers of recognition to scuttle along his spine.

Taut silence screeched between them, as if the Roman recognized him too.

But how? From where? Bren couldn’t place him. Didn’t even recognize the face, and those injuries weren’t the kind a man would forget, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Dunmacos,” the Roman said.

And in that moment, he knew.

Three years ago, within weeks of assuming this cursed identity, Bren had been assigned to a Legion in Gaul. Still reeling from the orgy of slaughter and the quagmire of blood that he’d so recently escaped, it had been a bitter release to use Dunmacos’s chilling reputation as an outlet for his rage. For months he’d reacted with crippling ferocity to the slightest insult, the merest hint of disrespect among the other auxiliaries. Until there wasn’t the faintest doubt in even the most suspicious mind that he was who he claimed to be.