Anticipation sizzled through Carys’ blood as she waited for her Roman to emerge from the wood. She couldn’t see him, but he was there. Somehow, she could feel him, deep in the most sacred recess of her soul, the same way she could feel when the wise Cerridwen merged with her spirit.
Flee. The command shivered through her mind, sharp with the acrid scent of fear. She had escaped the enemy once. To tempt fate twice was foolish in the extreme.
Except she hadn’t tempted fate by returning to the waterfall. She was at the Cauldron, in the holy glade of her beloved goddess. And her Roman had discovered her there.
He marched from the shadowed depths, magnificent and terrifying in the strange, exotic uniform of his conquering race. The sun glinted on his polished breastplate and enhanced the rich scarlet of his cloak, but Carys focused on his short black hair, on his hard, unsmiling face, and finally on his unblinking blue gaze.
“We meet again.” She spoke in her mother tongue, for some reason unwilling to let him know she was fluent in Latin. She clasped her fingers together so he couldn’t see how they trembled. And yet despite the shrill voice that shrieked through her mind, commanding her to turn and flee before it was too late, she wasn’t afraid of what this Roman might do to her.
Only of what the consequences to her people might be.
That should be enough reason for her to seek instant escape. And yet she remained where she was, allowing him to close the distance between them, allowing her lingering chances of freedom to slip into nothingness.
“It seems the gods wish our paths to cross, my lady.” His tone was sardonic, but as rich and sensual as she recalled. As erotic as any of the dreams she’d enjoyed over the last two nights.
“My gods or yours?” Her breath was tight in her chest, constricting her lungs and squeezing her vocal cords. She hoped he couldn’t hear the catch in her voice, or the way her heart pounded against her ribs. She didn’t want this Roman to know just how fundamentally he affected her.
He paused before her. So close she could reach out her hand and touch his battle-scarred armor. “Perhaps our gods work in harmony.”
“Our gods?” Had she misheard? She jerked her gaze from the sensual outline of his lips and stared into his eyes. Despite her covert Latin education, she agreed with the general consensus that Romans were barbarous heathens who acknowledged no true gods—not even the all-seeing, most divine goddess of all, the Morrigan—only their own craven idols.
But if that was so, how could this Roman even suggest he acknowledged the existence of her gods?
He reached out, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, and lifted the end of her braid. “Perhaps,” he said, as the unbound strands of her hair slid through his fingers, “the same gods answer to different names.”
He only touched her hair. And yet she could feel his touch lighting her soul. And his words ignited her brain.
“Different names,” she breathed. A revolutionary concept. Almost blasphemous. And yet—strangely intoxicating, the way she felt when Cerridwen imparted a sliver of knowledge so illuminating as to be for her mind only.
His hand fisted around her hair. “Will you tell me your name now, my lady?”
It would be so easy. And yet there was power in her name. She might desire this Roman with every breath she took, but she couldn’t trust him.
“Not yet.” The words slipped out before she could prevent them. Before she realized what they were, what they could mean. Not yet? Would she, then, be able to trust him at some point?
The corner of his mouth lifted in a brief smile. “Then you intend to tell me another time?” He wound a length of her braided hair around his fist, and she stumbled forward until there was barely a breath between them. “In that case I won’t demand your compliance now.”
She drew in a deep breath. The earthy aroma of woods and leaves and sacred water diminished beneath the tantalizing scent of virile male, scrambling her mind. What remained of it. “I will never comply with your demands, Roman.”
His blue eyes ensnared her. Surely they were the eyes of a god.
“Not yet.” And then he smiled, the smile of a man supremely confident in the outcome of his prediction.
Entranced by his wordplay, she smiled back. “Not ever. I comply with no man’s demands.”
His teeth flashed as if he found her comment humorous. “You must have driven your father to distraction.” And then his smile vanished, and the effect was as profound as if storm clouds covered the sun. “Do you defy your husband also, my lady?”
He had mentioned a husband before. Did the thought of her owning a husband irk him that much?
It shouldn’t matter. And yet a thrill chased along her spine at the knowledge this proud Roman disliked the thought of her being bound to another.
“If I possessed a husband, he would know better than to issue me such demands.”
His eyes darkened and his grasp on her hair tightened, but she refused to stumble before him again. Instead she resisted the pressure he exerted and embraced the needles of pain dancing across her skull.
Because the pain held a twisted element of pleasure, that spun through her mind and ignited strange tremors along the back of her neck, over her shoulders and across the exposed swells of her breasts.
“You’re widowed?” His voice held no softness. Just a raw demand to know.
His smoldering gaze stoked her arousal and the tremors wrapped around her nipples in a sensual caress, tightening the sensitive peaks, straining against the fabric of her gown with unbearable need.
“I’m not widowed. I’m my own mistress, Roman.”
Something flashed in his eyes, something dark and dangerous, as if her words held unknown meaning to him. He took a step toward her, loosened his hold on her hair and slipped his hand around the nape of her neck.
Calloused fingers curled around her vulnerable flesh. Strong. Demanding. Possessive. She tipped back her head so she could look into his face, but also to show him his predatory action didn’t intimidate her.
He fascinated her. Intrigued her. Drew her as inexorably as a moth was drawn to the deadly flame. Like the moth, she would be burned. Unlike the moth, she knew her fate in advance.
And still she had no desire to flee.
“Under whose protection are you?” His voice was low, smoky, and wrapped its erotic spell around her senses.
“Cerridwen protects me.” As she whispered the words, her fingers trailed along his strong, uncompromising jaw, and shivers chased from the tips of her fingers, along her arms, and to the throbbing peaks of her nipples.
His jaw clenched. Barely discernible stubble grazed her flesh and she cupped her palm around him delighting in the evocative scent of his utter maleness, the texture of his roughened skin and the hard, unyielding planes of his bronzed face.
“Do you live out here alone?” His eyes never left hers. His fingers scorched her nape. And the vibrant feathers upon his helmet brushed the swells of her breasts.
As if in a dream, Carys rose onto her toes, allowing her fingers to trace over his high cheekbone and across his temple. Her breath caught in her throat as she tentatively caressed his short black hair.
Sensation sizzled through her fingertips. Softness of the red squirrel’s fur yet abrasive, like his jaw. Intoxicating. She ran her palm over his head again, delighting in the strange combination of textures.
“If I don’t have you soon, I fear for my sanity.” His voice was raw with need. For her. Thrills shivered through her, and her need matched his.
He gave a mirthless laugh and pulled her roughly against him. His armor dug into her soft flesh, and she curled her free hand around his forearm. Such primal power in his arms. And yet he made her feel safe.
“You’d do more than tremble if you understood me,” he said grimly, and only then, with a rush of awareness, did she realize he was speaking Latin. “Gods. You could do nothing to stop me from taking you. Right here. Where you stand.”
She wouldn’t want to stop him. She scraped her nails over his nape. Curse his foreign armor. She couldn’t feel his body at all, and she wanted to feel his body. Wanted to see it, touch it. Taste and lick it. Do everything in reality that she had been practicing in her dreams for the last three moons.
He snaked his arm around her waist, and the edge of his helmet dug against her buttock before tumbling to the ground. His lips brushed against hers, hot breath mingling, and the tip of his tongue slid sensuously along the seam of her lips.
“I want to thrust my cock into your luscious mouth,” he said, and sudden, shocking heat speared Carys low in her womb, painful in its erotic intensity. “I want to see you take me in, watch you suck on me. Feel your tongue stroke my length, until I pump my hot seed down your slender, tempting throat.”
Vivid images flooded her mind of her on her knees before him in this sacred glade. Of her taking his rigid shaft in her hand, and guiding him into her open mouth.
She had never tried such a thing before. Had never wanted to contemplate such an activity with Aeron, despite his constant demands, and yet with this Roman—whose name she still didn’t know—the notion captivated her.
His tongue teased, and she opened her mouth and sucked him inside. And imagined something hotter, thicker. Longer. She stroked him with her tongue, dug her nails into the back of his neck and clasped her fingers around his forearm.
But it wasn’t enough. His armor was an impenetrable barrier. She needed naked flesh. Satisfaction. Orgasm.
He dragged his mouth free and panted against her swollen lips. “You can’t survive out here alone, my lady. Without a man to protect you, you have no chance.” He kissed her again, a deep, plundering kiss that turned her lungs inside out. Sweet agony.
Again he pulled free. “You’re coming with me.”
Of course she was coming with him. They would come together. She had heard of such delights. It was a magical experience, a supreme gift from the goddess, and one she desperately wished to share with this hard, tough centurion.
His hand slipped from her nape, as if reluctant to relinquish his possession. But soon he would possess her in a far more intimate manner. And she would possess him. And then they would come. Her swollen clit throbbed with anticipation and liquid heat dampened her pussy at the realization that soon—very soon—this Roman would be hers.
The tip of his finger trailed over her parted lips. “So tempting,” he ground out, still speaking in his native Latin as if her language somehow eluded him. “But it’s better we wait. Later I’ll have all the time I need to explore every beautiful curve of your perfect body.”
She licked the tip of his finger. Salty. She caught him with her teeth and drew him into her mouth. She didn’t want later. She wanted now.
He gave a ragged laugh and stroked her head, clasped her plait and let her braid slide along his palm. “That’s right, my little Celtic lady. Gods, you’ll milk me dry.” He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, as if she caused him pain. “We need to go. Now.” He spoke in Celtic and focused on her, eyes almost black with desire. And through the hot, swirling fog of arousal that clouded her reason, Carys suddenly understood.
She jerked back, panting, and stared at him. He sighed heavily as if he had expected her to pull away.
“You’re not my captive,” he said. “I want to offer you my protection. With me you’ll have everything you wish.”
He was wrong. She wouldn’t have her freedom, no matter how much the Roman believed otherwise. “You want to offer me protection in exchange for”—she hesitated for a heartbeat, because saying the words out loud tarnished everything—“use of my body.”
A pained frown crawled across his brow, as if he didn’t much care for her analysis. “I hope you might use my body also.”
She wasn’t in the mood to play word games. “But I don’t require your protection, Roman. I offer you myself because I want to. Not because I need something from you in return.”
“I didn’t mean to cause offense, my lady.” Still frowning, he reached out and brushed stray strands of hair from her heated cheek. “But if you’re going to be mine, then I want you where I can look after you.”
Something deep inside her melted at his words. What would it be like to have a man such as this truly care for her? Look after her, in the way he so clearly meant?
But she wasn’t a Roman woman who, rumor said, was incapable of making any decision for herself. Carys was not only a Celt. She was a Druid, and to willingly relinquish any of her power to another—let alone a man from the enemy—was unthinkable.
She threaded her fingers through his as he gently cradled her face. His hand was large beneath hers, yet his touch was light as thistledown.
“I can look after myself.”
Something shifted in those mesmerizing blue eyes. “The scouts combed this entire area. They discovered no trace of habitation.” His fingers tightened, but not enough to cause discomfort. “Where are you living?” It was no idle question. It was a demand.
Carys bowed only to the demands of her goddess.
“You know I can’t tell you. I have my kin to protect against your wrath.” And how great his wrath would be, should he ever discover her truth. Even crucifixion was considered too easy a death for a Druid. Aeron had seen the Roman invaders decimate her people in visions, visions that had ultimately saved all their lives.
The suspicion in his eyes faded, and his hand gentled once more. “Your kin is safe with me, my lady. None of your blood could raise my wrath.” He paused for a heartbeat. “But they must surrender to the might of Rome. You know this.”
She stretched up and once again stroked his short black hair. Back and forth. As if he was a harmless puppy. Entranced by the sensations skittering over her fingertips, and the mesmeric quality of his intense gaze, she offered him a wondering smile.
“You know I can never surrender, Roman.”
His calloused thumb caressed her cheek. “You, my lady, need only surrender to me.”
Flame licked through her and caused the muscles in her damp channel to contract with need. She wanted to surrender to this exotic warrior. But she could never betray her people by accompanying him to his fortification.
She caressed the curve of his ear. So strange for a man to have not even one piercing in his lobe. “And yet I remain here.”
He cupped her nape once again and the warmth from his hand branded her. “You would defy me?” The words were threatening, and yet she didn’t feel threatened. She felt exhilarated.
“Yes.”
“I don’t need your permission to take you, lady. How would you prevent me from carrying out my desire?” His grip became possessive and tension radiated from him, as if it were a living entity, coiled and ready to spring.
“If all you want is a slave, then there’s nothing I can do to prevent it.” Sweet Cerridwen, she didn’t want to prevent him from carrying out his desire. Only his arrogant wish to enchain her. Her pulse throbbed erratically against his imprisoning hold, stirring her blood and heating her brain.
Time suspended in a shimmering haze as she returned his unwavering gaze. No breeze stirred in the sacred glade, no call of bird, nor rustle of woodland creature.
Her Roman was the only man in the world, and her future rested on his response.
His hand slid around her throat, across her collarbone, and deliberately grazed the naked swells of her breasts. She gasped involuntarily, arching toward him, begging for more. But his hand dropped from her.
“A slave?” His voice was deceptively calm, yet she could feel the hum of anger in his tone, as if her accusation offended his honor. “Is that the only way you would come with me, Celt?”
She dragged in a lungful of air and tried to rein in her cantering lust. But her mind wanted release just as much as her body. “You could come to me.”
Silence, so deep, so profound, it echoed in her bones and shattered through the stars. His eyes narrowed and brow creased, as if such a notion were astonishing, unbelievable.
As if the thought of a centurion bowing to the wishes of a Celt were beyond comprehension.
Eternity whispered with each frantic beat of her heart. And then he retreated one step. “You would meet with me illicitly?”
Her breath tangled, constricting her throat. “Yes.” It was the only word she could manage. She hoped it would be enough. Already she had said too much, given him too much, and yet she couldn’t help herself.
Surely she wasn’t a traitor if she never divulged who she truly was? Where her people hid?
This was purely for her. To satisfy her dreams and fulfill her frustrated desires. Nothing more. There could never be anything more. The Roman would satisfy her craving for mutual orgasmic knowledge, and when they had both slated their lust she could quietly vanish within the sacred spiral.
“Why?” His voice was hard, unyielding.
“Because that is what I wish.”
Incredulity washed over his features. Had he never been crossed before? “And I should acquiesce to this, simply because it’s what you wish?”
Carys resisted the overwhelming urge thundering through her blood to reach out and touch his arm, or run her fingers through his irresistible hair once again. He had stepped back from her. It was up to him to make the first move forward.
“Yes.” There was no other answer she could give.
Another silence vibrated through the glade, scraping along every nerve she possessed. Once again his inscrutable warrior mask shielded his true emotions as he contemplated her, as if assessing her worth as a mere spoil of war.
In his mind perhaps that was all she was.
But deep in the fundamental essence of her being, Carys knew that wasn’t so. If it were, he would have taken her with him two days ago.
“What would your family do to you, if they ever discovered you’d willingly fraternized with the enemy?”
Startled by his question, she blinked at him in momentary confusion. Why would he care?
And yet he had asked the one question she’d avoided thinking herself. Because she knew how violently her kin would react to such betrayal.
“They’ll never discover it.” She wouldn’t ask Cerridwen to make this Roman hers, but she would ask her goddess to help conceal the illicit liaison. Because that wasn’t being selfish. It was putting her people’s safety first.
Scorn whispered through her mind, but she turned from it. Her logic was sound. Her goddess would understand.
The Roman’s blue eyes incinerated her, scorching the breath from her lungs. “But what,” he said in a deceptively calm way, “if they do?”