Tainted (20 page)

The dread bloomed with every beat of her heart. She had no
personal experience of what Druids might or might not do. But her own husband,
a Roman patrician, had been willing to spill the blood of his own child on the
altar of his pride.

She hitched in a shallow breath as her world tipped into
uncharted waters. She had never questioned her father’s words. He told her only
the truth as he saw it; as it had been related to him. As it was proclaimed by
Rome.

Her father was ruthless in his business dealings. He
wouldn’t be such a successful merchant if he was not. But at home, with her, he
was nothing but gentle and considerate. Yet now, with Gawain sitting silently
by her side, she thought of her father’s attitude when it came to Druids with a
new perspective.

He loathed them. It was personal. A chill crawled along her
spine and across her arms. What had happened in the past to make him so sure of
their evil nature?

Still Gawain regarded her. A treacherous certainty slid into
her mind.

She did not care if he was a Druid. She would stake her life
that he had never mutilated a child in a sacred ritual or embarked on a savage
trail of rape and murder of innocents. She realized she was clutching her
locket and her thumb traced over its familiar gold surface.

Time hung suspended between them. Gawain still waited for
her response and she imagined her next words would tell him whether their
liaison could continue—or finish this day.

Slowly she unclasped the locket and pressed it against her
breast. She could ask him outright if he was a Druid. He might even tell her
the truth.

But she did not want to hear it.

She looked back at him once again, the face of a man who
might be her worst enemy, but saw only the man she no longer wanted to live
without. They might not have a future together. But she could give him this.

“There’s something I did not tell you, about the night of my
last daughter’s birth.”

Emotion flickered in his eyes. Whatever he had expected her
to say, it had not been that. “Is there?” He sounded cautious but his entire
focus was on her and although a sedate space remained between them she could
feel his comforting heat embrace her.

Any remaining doubts she might have harbored about telling
him of Cassia vanished. “Yes. I defied Scipio’s orders to leave Cassia to the
mercy of the gods. She’s alive, Gawain. And will be arriving in Britannia in a
little over two weeks time.”

Gawain stared at Antonia and hoped his shock wasn’t apparent
on his face. He had been bracing himself for her to ask if he was a Druid. Had
convinced himself that lying to her was the only thing he could do. Yet, as she
so often did, she had turned the conversation in a direction he had not
foreseen.

His conviction had been right. This was the something
significant that had happened the night of her daughter’s birth that he’d been
unable to put his finger on. Of anything he might have imagined, the truth had
not been it.

She had gone against the word of her husband, the perceived
wishes of her gods and, presumably, the laws of Rome in order to save her
newborn daughter. She might be a Roman noblewoman but she had the heart and the
strength of will of a warrior.

There was an odd constriction in his chest as he watched her
cradle her locket in the palm of her hand, before she reached toward him. He
looked at the opened locket, and saw two perfect portraits. One of a woman, the
other of a beautiful baby.

“My daughter, Cassia.” Antonia’s voice was barely above a
whisper as she traced the tip of her finger over the face of the child. Then
she did the same to the portrait of the woman. “I named her after my mother.”

Remorse burned through him as he recalled his scathing
thoughts the day they had met. Antonia had appeared scandalized that Carys had
named Nia after her mother. He’d leaped to conclusions. They had been
absolutely wrong.

Antonia hadn’t been shocked at Carys breaking with Roman
tradition. She had been shocked only because Carys was so open about it.

He, who had once prided himself on his ability to judge
others in the name of Lugus, was guilty of unfairly judging Antonia based
solely on his own prejudices. He’d known many fearless women. Yet Antonia was
the bravest.

He kept his gaze fixed on her locket. “I should like to meet
your daughter, Antonia.”

The silence after his words razed his senses. If she had no
wish for him to meet her child then why had she told him about her? Finally, he
looked up at her, and caught the sparkle of tears in her beautiful eyes.

She sniffed, blinked rapidly and gently closed her locket.
“I would like that too.”

After leaving Antonia, Gawain made his way through the back
streets. He had met several of the underground Druids but after Rhys’ arrest
they had all vanished without a trace. But, without Rhys, would they be willing
to change their tactics?

He turned into a dingy alley, his mind working on various
scenarios whereby the legions fell and Antonia remained safe. And in that
moment when his concentration shifted from his surroundings, the hair on the
back of his neck rose in warning.

He swung around, dagger in hand. Two cutthroats stalked him,
identical leers on their faces. As one, they leaped toward him and he ducked,
spun around and barreled into the closest one, sending them both crashing into
a stone wall.

As the first man staggered to his feet, the second one
attacked Gawain from behind. He shoved backward and plunged his dagger into the
other man’s neck. Blood bubbled over the hilt, over his hand, and he slammed
his foot against the cutthroat’s chest. The man crumpled to the ground, just as
the second man smashed his fist against the side of Gawain’s head.

Pain exploded through his brain, caused his vision to
double. He staggered, used the momentum and wheeled back toward his attacker.

His hand was slippery with blood but he clung grimly onto
his weapon. The man had a length of chain and he flicked it, like a whip, and
Gawain’s dagger went flying.

Gawain bared his teeth, grabbed the chain and yanked his
assailant forward. He used his fists, his head, every part of his body was a
honed weapon and the only sounds that filled his ears were harsh breaths, heavy
thuds and the thunder of his blood.

With a final punch, the cutthroat fell to the ground, blood
dripping from his nose and mouth. Gawain staggered back a couple of steps, his
breath searing his lungs, sweat and blood distorting his vision. When he was
sure the other man had no intention of finishing the fight he swung around,
looking for his dagger.

And at the end of the alley saw the
praetor
, flanked
by two foreign mercenaries.

Gawain straightened, every battered sense on full alert as
the
praetor
and his mercenaries strolled down the alley toward him. His
dagger was out of reach, the chain wrapped around the second cutthroat’s legs,
and he did not rate his chances high against another three men—who were all
armed.

“Celt.” The
praetor
swept his autocratic glance over
him, as though Gawain was a leper. “Do I have your attention?”

Gawain spat blood at the
praetor
’s feet. “I’m
listening.” Not that he had much choice.

For long moments, the
praetor
continued to stare at
him. It was like looking into the soulless eyes of a serpent. Finally the Roman
raised his hand and the mercenaries stepped back, allowing the two of them
privacy.

“If I dig deep enough,” his voice was low, ensuring they
were not overheard, “I will discover the evidence I require against you. Your
relationship with the tribune’s wife will not be enough to save your neck.”

Gawain stifled the urge to retaliate. Physical violence
would get him nowhere in his current circumstances and he couldn’t bait the
praetor
with words, because words could incriminate not only himself but Carys and all
her blood kin.

He battened down his frustration and forced the foul lie
from his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The
praetor
’s smile was deadly. “Do not waste my
time, Celt. If not for the lady Antonia you would already be feeding the crows
on a cross.”

Gawain’s heart jackknifed. His ribs hurt as he struggled to
draw breath into his lungs. He could not allow the Roman to see Antonia’s name
meant anything to him. “You mean the merchant’s daughter? What does she have to
do with this?”

“I told you not to waste my time.” The
praetor
no
longer bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “I’m not blind, Celt. I saw the
way you looked at her the other night. I saw you sit beside her in the forum
just now. Do you really think you have a chance of enticing a woman as refined
as she?”

Despite the pounding imperative to smash his fist between
the Roman’s eyes, relief thundered through him. The
praetor
did not know
of his and Antonia’s liaison. Her reputation was unsullied.

“We’re merely acquaintances. She is a friend of the
tribune’s wife.”

The
praetor
’s unblinking stare bored into him as
though he sought answers to unasked questions. Gawain stared back. The Roman
would learn nothing of Antonia from him.

“Lady Antonia is blessed with the gentle heart of her sex.”
The
praetor
puffed out his chest and Gawain battled the need to dive for
his dagger and thrust it through the Roman’s throat. Condescending bastard.
Antonia possessed the brave heart of a warrior. “It would distress her to see
an acquaintance condemned as Rome’s bitterest enemy. I would do a great deal to
avoid causing her such distress. Do you understand me, Celt?”

The dank stone walls that flanked the alley contracted
around him and it was hard to draw a breath. A buzzing cacophony filled his
head, and the smug face of the Roman imprinted on his mind.

The only reason he was still alive was because the
praetor
knew his death would upset Antonia. Evidence did not matter when it came to
Druids. Mere suspicion was enough to convict. But the Roman knew Antonia cared
for Gawain. And the Roman cared enough for Antonia to warn her barbarous lover
of the consequences of continuing their ill-fated liaison.

It didn’t matter what the
praetor
did to him. But it
was imperative he did not suspect Antonia was his lover in reality. Rome set
such stock by their noblewomen’s unblemished reputations.

“The lady Antonia does not return my regard. If she did,
your threats would mean nothing to me.”

The Roman took another step toward him. “I do not threaten.
I’m telling you how it will be. Leave Britannia and never return.” He punched
Gawain in the face, his heavy ring of office tearing flesh. Gawain staggered
but refused to give the bastard the satisfaction of falling to the ground.
“Should we meet again when Lady Antonia is my wife and far from this primitive
province, my benevolence may not be so accommodating.”

Carys stood by his side in the room dedicated to preparing
meals in the villa, arms folded, as one of the Druids who had arrived with her
mother tended to his injuries. He had protested they did not need looking at,
and Carys had threatened him with further violence if he did not comply.

Only when the other Druid left the room did Carys let out an
infuriated breath. “Cutthroats, you say?” Disbelief dripped from every word and
he shot her a black glare. “And you were a random victim they picked upon?”

“Do not worry. They will never pick on another.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment.” She unfolded her arms and
made a despairing gesture, clearly for Cerridwen’s benefit. “But I’m certain
the
praetor
has many others he can call on.”

He should have known Carys would see through his attempts to
fog the truth. “I won’t leave Antonia at the mercy of that bastard. When I
leave Camulodunon she will be by my side.” Antonia and her daughter. But Carys
did not need to know everything.

Carys returned his glare. “What happened to the brief
affair, Gawain? You were supposed to forget about her within the turn of a
moon. Not make insane plans to take her with you to the gods know where.”

He rolled his shoulders and ignored the pain that spiked
into every particle of his body.

“You knew it would never be a brief affair, Carys.” She had
warned him against pursuing Antonia. Yet even if he had possessed this
foreknowledge, he would have continued on the same path. The threat of death
from a jealous Roman was a small price to pay for the hours he’d spent with
Antonia.

“I knew it would cause you great pain.” Her voice was no
longer accusatory and she gently brushed her fingers over his shoulder. “And
I’m not talking about these physical injuries.”

He had been injured far worse in the past. But the thought
of Antonia seeing him, bruised and bloodied, did not appeal. “Will you send a
message to Antonia canceling our meeting this afternoon?” He would send a
message himself but it was better if it came from Carys, for the sake of
propriety.

“You should send her a message ending this liaison.” But
there was no rancor in Carys’ voice, only resignation. “Even if Antonia agrees
to go with you, her father will never allow it. He will search for her and hunt
for you until his dying breath.”

She told him nothing he did not already know. Yet his mind
was set. When he left for the land of the Picts, so would Antonia and her
child.

After Antonia watched Gawain leave the forum she turned to
Elpis. “I should tell my father of Cassia.”

Elpis remained silent, an oddly brooding look on her face
and Antonia clasped her hand, needing the comfort. Surely Elpis did not think
her father would reject Cassia if he knew the truth?

Finally Elpis looked at her. “Yes.” Her voice was soft but
Antonia detected the faintest hint of despair in that one word. “A child should
know her own blood kin,
domina
.”

There was no condemnation in Elpis’ response but guilt
stabbed through Antonia all the same. Elpis had been taken from her family, her
land and everything she had ever known when she was a small child. She had no
idea if her parents were alive or dead, or whether she had any brothers or
sisters.

If she were free, would she search for them? If Antonia was
in her place, wouldn’t she long to know the truth of her heritage?

Antonia had escaped the shackles of Rome. So too had her
precious daughter. How could she not offer the same freedom to her faithful
slave?

Antonia handed her father her locket and watched him look
down at the portrait of his granddaughter. After leaving the forum, Antonia had
returned to the villa and found her father here, in the courtyard. And so she
had told him of Cassia.

He hadn’t interrupted her. Had not said a word. But she had
watched him age ten years and guilt ate into her heart.

She couldn’t take the words back. Would not, even if she
could. She had once feared her father’s heart would not survive learning of
Scipio’s treatment of her. But her father deserved to know the truth. Cassia
deserved the truth to be told.

Finally he stirred, his finger tracing over the delicate
portraiture. “You named her after your mother?” His voice was hushed. He
appeared incapable of tearing his eyes away from her locket.

“Yes.”

“She is the image of you at that age.” Finally he looked up
at her and her heart twisted at the tears she saw glistening in his eyes. “She
is beautiful, Antonia.”

“Father.” She reached out and took his hand. “I’m sorry I
did not tell you of her birth before.”

He continued to stare at her and with every passing moment,
his features hardened and eyes grew colder. A shiver trickled over her arms and
she squeezed his fingers. Despite his obvious desire to see and welcome Cassia,
did he condemn her for defying Scipio’s command?

“Your former husband had best not set foot in Britannia,
Antonia. He would not last a day here.”

Relief washed through her. Her father was completely on her
side. “He considers Britannia a primitive outpost of the empire. He would never
come here willingly.”

“My contacts spread far. I am owed a great many favors.
Perhaps even in Rome he is not safe.”

There was an icy note in her father’s voice that she had
never heard before. Alarm spiked. She wanted him on her side, but she didn’t
want him putting himself in danger in order to exact vengeance against a
powerful patrician.

This was why she hadn’t wanted him to know the details of
her marriage.

“Only one thing matters. That you’re happy to acknowledge
your granddaughter. Promise me you won’t attempt retribution.”

Not that she cared if an excruciating accident befell
Scipio. She had often fantasized that he suffered agonies through
disembowelment or even crucifixion. But fantasies were safe. Put into reality
and the repercussions could be fatal.

Soon she would have Cassia. That was all that mattered.

Her father was once again staring at the portrait of Cassia.
“He sired a perfect child. May he rot in Tartarus for all time.”

She agreed with every particle of her being. But she didn’t
wish to discuss the fate the gods had in store for her former husband. Now she
knew Cassia’s welcome was assured, there was another matter she needed to ask
her father about.

“There was a crucifixion on the road today.”

He looked up. “Yes. Another filthy Druid has met his just
end.”

Growing up he had encouraged her to question and investigate
everything. Everything except when it came to Druids. It was as though an
invisible barrier surrounded the subject and she had never been inclined to
penetrate it.

Until today.

“Perhaps not all Druids deserve such a fate.”

He stared at her as if she had just blasphemed against
Jupiter himself. “They all deserve to die.” His voice vibrated with fury and
Antonia gazed at him, aghast at his vehemence. “Never doubt that, Antonia.
Every last one of them must be eliminated from the face of the earth.”

“But why?” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “What
have they ever done to you, Father?”

For a moment, she didn’t think he was going to answer her.
His eyes became glazed, as though he no longer saw her but, conversely, his
fingers curled around her locket in an oddly protective gesture.

Unease crawled along her spine and she had the insane desire
to retract her question, to change the subject. To wipe that unnatural
expression from her father’s face.

Finally he drew in a long breath. “I have not been fully
truthful with you, Antonia. About your mother—it was not giving birth to you
that killed her. She was murdered by the hand of a Druid.”

Antonia remained in the courtyard after her father left to
attend to his business. Disjointed thoughts and jagged memories collided in her
mind and when Elpis entered the courtyard, her father’s words spilled from her
lips.

Shock scorched Elpis’ face. At least she had not known of
this great and terrible secret. But although Antonia’s heart thundered against
her ribs and nausea roiled in her breast, denial hammered with relentless
insistence in her mind.

She did not believe her father.

Could not.

He had refused to go into any details. Had swept her
incredulous questions aside. His face had become a rigid mask and only the
anguish in his eyes had prevented her from telling him she did not believe him
to his face.

It was terrifyingly obvious that he, at least, believed
every word.

“You heard no whisper of this from the other slaves when you
were a child?” She gripped Elpis’ hand and pulled her onto the stone seat. “How
could such a thing be kept so secret?”

“I heard nothing,
domina
. But who would confide in
me, a Greek slave girl?”

There was no recrimination in Elpis’ voice. She simply spoke
the truth. Why would slaves and servants who had served her father for years
confide in a foreign newcomer? Besides, by the time Elpis had joined the
household Antonia’s mother had been dead for eight years.

The silence wrapped around her, suffocating. She took a deep
breath but it did not help calm her racing thoughts. She chanced a sideways
glance at Elpis, but the other woman remained serene, as she always did.

She should free Elpis.
Again the thought twisted
through her mind. Antonia had been born free, but her marriage to Scipio had
been little more than slavery embellished with luxury and the blessing of Rome.
She had been given her freedom. Did Elpis, who had also suffered at the brutal
hands of Scipio, deserve less for her loyalty?