Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (20 page)

Scarcely aware of his action, his fingers slid over the handle of her dagger, which he’d attached to his belt. There was something about it that nagged at the edges of his mind, as if the answers to unformed questions were buried in its gleaming blade.

When they reached Cymru he’d return it to her. But for now, despite her assertion he was safe from retribution, he’d hold on to it. Not only because he wouldn’t have to worry about being stabbed through the heart as he lay on their bed, but also because Morwyn was unlikely to attempt an escape without her weapon for protection.

Not that she’d try to escape in Camulodunon. Why would she? The Romans infested the town like rats. She’d be in as much danger from molestation here on her own as she would in the occupied forests of Cymru.

His cock stirred at the knowledge she was back in the inn, waiting for him. It was a strange notion, to know a woman waited for him. Logically he knew it meant nothing, because Morwyn had no choice but to remain at the inn.

Yet still anticipation of seeing her, of taking her once again, tightened his groin and constricted his breathing. Without conscious thought he quickened his pace, impatient to see her face when he gave her the ribbons. Would she pretend uninterest or show genuine delight? He could imagine both scenarios, and had not the faintest clue which way she would react.

And then he saw her, on the other side of the square, and his heart kicked against his ribs in shocked denial.

It couldn’t be her. But there was no mistaking her long black hair in its untidy braid, or the vibrant sky blue gown she wore. Or the proud way she held herself, as if she were a queen among peasants.

Others collided into him, but their curses meant nothing as he remained immobile. As he watched, she embraced the woman she’d been talking with. A Roman noblewoman. How did Morwyn know a Roman noblewoman? This was no chance encounter. The two knew each other, and by the way the Roman clung to Morwyn, they were far more than casual acquaintances.

A dull rage knotted deep in his gut. He’d been so sure she would remain at the inn. But given the first opportunity, she’d escaped.

Only now did he recall her interest in Camulodunon. Only now could he see she’d gone along with his demands because it suited her to. She had never intended to return to Cymru. She’d allowed him to see what he’d wanted to see, and not what should have been obvious to a half-wit.

He’d been blinded by lust. And she’d used that against him.

His fingers curled around the hilt of her jewel-encrusted dagger. He had no rights over her. The Roman had clearly given Morwyn her protection. All he had left was the memory of their night together and her dagger.

The memory would drive him insane if he let it, and the dagger would fetch a good price at market. Except he knew, even as the savage thought crossed his mind, he would never sell the cursed dagger. He’d keep it, to remind himself how futile it was to ever imagine he deserved a reprieve from his cursed existence.

Morwyn turned from the Roman and headed out of the forum. For a moment Bren remained paralyzed, following her progress with an uncompromising glare, until realization hit.

She was leaving the sanctity of the forum. Abandoning her Roman. Once out on the streets it would be much easier to capture her again. To escort her back to the inn.

To fuck her until she forgot why she wanted to leave him and remembered only that he was the one who wrenched mind-splintering orgasms from her convulsing body.

Keeping a good distance, he followed her. Where was she going? To meet with another Roman?

A chill iced his blood. Was she a spy for the Romans? Was her vocal loathing for the invaders nothing more than a cover?

He had in the past. But they hadn’t been Morwyn.

Sweat slicked the palms of his hands. A physical weakness he hadn’t experienced since boyhood. Still she continued, as if she knew exactly where she was going, and still he hung back, unwilling to hold a dagger to her throat. Unwilling to ask her the questions to prove her a traitor.

The streets became less crowded. At any moment she might turn and see him. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He could either allow her to walk away, or abduct her now.

Let her go
. He couldn’t believe she was a traitor to her people. All she had wanted was her freedom.

His chest constricted, as if his lungs had trouble accessing air. It made sense to let her go. She was an encumbrance. She slowed him down. And despite it all, his pace quickened and he crossed the road, decreasing the distance between them. Intending to grab her and keep her until they returned to her homeland.

He couldn’t think further than that.

She came to a sudden halt, turned toward a building and vanished inside.

With a jolt of disbelief, he realized they were back at the inn. She had returned to him of her own free will.

He remained on the road, expecting her to emerge at any moment. But she’d had her pack with her. Why would she return to the place she was escaping from? For all she knew, he had already discovered her absence and would be waiting for her, dagger drawn.

Grimy beggars rummaged in the rotting rubbish discarded by the side of the inn, and a couple of gaudily painted women from the adjacent brothel propositioned him. And still Morwyn didn’t reappear.

Finally he entered the inn, was given directions to his room, and stood outside the door. His heart thundered against his ribs, as if he were about to go into battle. Yet he was ice-cold when he faced a battle, his mind clear and body under absolute control.

Rattled by the knowledge she could so easily shatter the calm he’d taken years to perfect, he thrust open the door. She was standing by the window, arms folded, looking in his direction as if she’d been waiting for him.

As if she had never left.

Lust raged, but he remained by the door. She might have returned only to plunge a newly acquired dagger through his heart. He wanted her, but not at the expense of his life.

He’d strip her of all weapons first. Then interrogate her. And then fuck her until this insane craving eating his reason was vanquished.

“There’s no need,” Morwyn said as her arms dropped to her sides and she closed the distance between them, “to look so happy to see me.”

“Should I be?” Instinctively his fingers curled around his dagger. Only to realize it was the bejeweled hilt of Morwyn’s dagger he grasped.

Her glance dropped to his hand and he caught the fleeting surprise that flashed across her face, as if his action made no sense to her. As if she hadn’t the slightest idea he knew she’d had ample opportunity to arm herself.

“I take it your business didn’t go well.” She looked up at him, no hint of fear or trepidation in her tone or expression. Despite the fact he gripped a dagger as if she were his mortal enemy.

With more effort than should have been necessary, he unhooked his fingers from the handle. Even if she lunged at him with a dagger in both hands, what kind of man was he if he couldn’t disarm her without resorting to a weapon?

“What makes you think that?” Was she fishing for information? To pass on to her Roman friend?

Why would a Roman noblewoman be interested in such matters?
Gods, his brain was fogged. If Morwyn were a man, she would already be on the floor, a heartbeat away from having her throat cut. He didn’t do supposition or ponder on possibilities. If threatened, he retaliated. Instantly and without compunction.

And here he was, standing before Morwyn and making excuses for her behavior instead of demanding to hear the truth.

“Perhaps,” Morwyn said, stepping directly in front of him and tilting her jaw so she could maintain eye contact. Her arms remained at her sides. “Because you look as if you’ve just been thrust into one of those barbarous gladiatorial arenas without warning.”

He didn’t wonder how she knew of such arenas when there was none in Cymru. Morwyn appeared to know many things, not least the Latin of the aristocracy. Had the Roman noblewoman taught her?

“My business is completed.” Why did she stand so close? The musky scent of aroused woman—of Morwyn—invaded his senses, as potent as any exotic aphrodisiac from the East. His fists clenched against his thighs. He would not be seduced by her wiles. Not until she’d answered his questions.

Except he couldn’t remember his questions.

She edged even closer. Her breathing was ragged, her dark eyes dilated.

“You smell of Roman spices.”

“You don’t sound repelled.”

For answer she shoved him against the door, and it slammed shut behind him. And despite his mistrust, despite his resolve to remain in control, a treacherous smile tugged at his lips.

No woman had ever shoved him so unceremoniously. His beloved Eryn had been too gentle to engage in such rough play and the few women he’d taken since were faceless and fleeting and afraid of offending him.

“Ah.” Morwyn dragged her nails up the back of his neck and across his scalp. Shivers of lightning stabbed through his brain. “You find me amusing, do you? A pleasant diversion from your taxing auxiliary duties?”

“Yes.” His voice was smoky with arousal, and with one swift maneuver he spanned her waist and spun her around, so she was the one pinned against the door.

His captive.

She dug her nails into his head, dragged him toward her. “Is that all?” Her warm breath smelled of aromatic berries and sharp woodland spices. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he pulled up her gown. No concealed weapons were strapped to her thighs. “Just
yes
? Amusing and diverting?”

“No.” His lips brushed hers. “You’re also infuriating and unpredictable.” His hands cupped her rounded bottom, the flesh taut and smooth against his fingers. “Intolerable.”

She smiled, and he felt her teeth against his lips. “That’s better, Gaul. You are a fast learner, after all.”

He laughed, the sound shocking him, but not enough to cut the laugh short. “Do you always talk so much during sex?” It was a novelty. For the last six years sex had been merely a physical release. There’d been no need for idle talk. But now, inexplicably, he enjoyed the breathless exchanges.

“Not always.” Briefly, shockingly, she nipped his lip. “Sometimes I scream.”

Her words were as potent as if she’d sunk to her knees and taken him into her mouth. His fingers gripped her flesh, jerking her roughly against his erection.

“You’ll scream for me.”

She angled herself against him, and despite the barrier of his clothes between them, he could still feel the damp heat of her tempting him.

“Make me.” It was a dare. A challenge.

His grip tightened and as he slammed her more securely against the door, he hefted her upward. With a smile of feminine triumph she wound her legs around his waist, and he felt her cross her ankles in the small of his back, and her grip was lethal.

He bared his teeth as frustration pounded through him. He needed to free himself, but couldn’t risk Morwyn sliding from his grasp. As if she could read his mind, she gave a breathless laugh and ruthlessly dragged the bottom of his tunic up to his belly, heedless of how the material tangled around his cock.

An involuntary hiss scraped between his teeth. And then her fingers curled around him, guiding him, taking control.

She rubbed his sensitive glans across her clitoris in a sensual, circular motion, her juices sliding over him in delicious, minute waves. Her lips parted, her eyes glazed, but she never took her gaze from him.

Angling her more securely against the door, he braced her weight on his forearms. Her muscles were rigid around him, a viselike grip that merged pain and desire until he couldn’t fathom whether the sensation was pleasure or agony. It didn’t matter. It speared through his body, lancing his cock and tightening his balls. Catapulted through his arteries, scorching his blood and sending fiery tendrils of unimaginable lust through his groin and gut and chest.

He needed to touch her. Feel her softness, her heat. His fingers slid over the curve of her buttock, seeking her core with unaccustomed urgency. The damp curls of her pussy welcomed him, drew him onward and sucked him into her hot sheath with exhilarating prowess.

Gasping into her flushed face, he inserted a second finger, pressing against her slick walls, stretching the tender flesh for his exploration. Her strong muscles contracted, squeezing his fingers together, and he resisted the pressure, forcing her open. Her eyes lost focus and her hands involuntarily gripped his cock and the back of his neck in a punishing duet.

The groan scalded his throat and stars exploded behind his eyes as she squeezed him in an unbearable embrace. Tremors danced through her tight cleft, rippled over his fingers, and her swollen clitoris burned the head of his engorged shaft.