Carys had said they. Not we. But he had expected nothing else and couldn’t understand the depth of his relief. And so he rounded on Aquila.
“She requires a woman. Fetch that girl, Branwen.”
Aquila straightened, and for a moment offense carved his features, as if he resented being sent on such a mission.
“I’ll arrange for her to be found.”
“No.” Maximus also straightened. “I entrust this to no one but you, Aquila. I don’t want Carys to be the victim of any malicious gossip.”
Aquila clenched his jaw and jerked his head.
“I’ll find Branwen.”
As soon as Maximus was sure they were alone, he turned back to Carys. She was staring at him, her eyes watering as if in delayed reaction.
“How do you feel?” Stupid question. But he wasn’t used to tending sick women.
It wasn’t his place to tend sick women. And yet he remained by her side, torn between relief at her apparent recovery and a sense of unease at the strange words she’d uttered as she had emerged from the elixir’s enchantment.
“I don’t know. Where am I?”
“In my quarters. You’re safe.”
Confusion clouded her eyes. “But I left the settlement.” Her frown deepened. “I returned with Morwyn and Gawain and went to the Cauldron.”
He filed the names away for later scrutiny. “I found you at the spring.” He made an educated guess. “The Cauldron.”
“I don’t recall.” She sounded unnerved. “What— Why did you take me from the sacred spring and bring me to your quarters?”
Should he tell her? Or leave her in blessed ignorance of the fate she’d so narrowly avoided?
Fear tinged her expression, as if she suspected the truth.
“I had no choice.” It was as simple, and as complicated, as that.
Carys gripped her fingers together and tried to prevent the panic churning through her stomach from showing on her face. If he had overheard her saying something incriminating while in trance, then he wouldn’t be looking at her the way he was now.
Would he?
She swallowed, her mouth dry, her throat raw and parched from the smoke-filled vision. Maximus didn’t look as if he wanted to butcher her as an enemy of his precious Rome. He looked as if he was concerned about her.
“Why did you follow me?” The words were barely above a whisper, as the full implication shivered through her soul. How had he followed them, without their knowledge?
She wouldn’t believe Maximus was the cause of that malignant presence she and Morwyn had sensed. There had to be another answer.
“I didn’t follow you.”
Her thoughts tumbled, shattered. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
She let out a shaky breath. “And yet you found me.”
“It would seem our paths are destined to cross, no matter how hard you try to run from me.”
The tension seeped from her body and she sagged against the wall, suddenly realizing how desperately tired she was. “I’d never run from you.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “You might want to remember that, the next time you defy my orders to stay.”
He would never know how much she wanted to stay with him. Or how such a fantasy could never be. “You still haven’t told me why you brought me here.”
The smile vanished.
“You were in danger.” His narrowed eyes betrayed the extent of his fury as they darkened with evil intent.
Ice trickled along her spine. “You saw I was in danger?” Awe threaded her voice. Even now the lingering remnants of terror scraped through her spirit as she recalled the smoke-filled, blood-drenched vision.
She had been trapped inside that vision. And something had dragged her from the pit.
Maximus. Guiding her back to the mortal realm.
Did he possess gifts from his own gods that allowed him access to the spiritual world? Had he witnessed the vision with her?
“Don’t you remember anything that happened after you arrived at the Cauldron?”
She stared at him, as she searched her mind. But all she could recall was preparing the magic roots.
Her gaze dropped to her hands and she slowly spread her fingers. Dried blood caked the finger she’d used to stir the sacred concoction.
Slowly she raised her hand, her eyes riveted on her finger. Now she could see teeth marks ripped into the skin, could recall the taste of her blood on her tongue and lips.
And the sheer, elemental terror of being aware of, yet being unable to flee, the fury of the Morrigan or the horrific carnage of her people.
She choked on a breath, and Maximus sat beside her on the bed and pulled her roughly into his arms, as if unaware how his armor bruised.
“Don’t be afraid.” His voice was hard. But his hand, caressing her head and sliding through her hair, was infinitely gentle. “I’ll find him. You have my word.”
She dragged her fascinated gaze from her torn finger and looked up at him. Something in his blazing eyes, in the way his gaze held hers with a possessive ferocity, alerted her that whatever danger Maximus had saved her from had nothing to do with her vision.
Dread coiled in the pit of her stomach. “Who will you find?”
His intense gaze flickered, as if her question made no sense. “The one who drugged you.”
Relief surged through her. Whatever he’d seen, he was still in blissful ignorance of her familiarity with such sacred, forbidden knowledge.
His calloused hand cradled her face, a simple gesture and yet somehow so tenderly intimate. “The barbarian who attacked you while you were insensible upon the ground.”
Her cocoon of security unraveled, twisting into knots of shocked disbelief. Her heart rate accelerated, her breath shortened, and a sensation of tightness wrapped around her chest, pressing into her lungs.
Why hadn’t Cerridwen protected her?
And immediately the answer vibrated through her brain.
Because, despite whatever Carys had thought, her goddess hadn’t invited her into the realm of the immortals.
“Carys.” Maximus’ tone was urgent and she struggled to focus on his face, and not on the horrifying prospect that she had irretrievably severed the special bond with Cerridwen by her own rash actions.
“Who—who—?” The words wouldn’t articulate. Why hadn’t she known the malignant sensation of being followed, as she’d ridden back to the spiral, was because the Roman legionaries who’d attacked her that morning were tracking her?
“Don’t distress yourself.” His voice vibrated with leashed anger, and yet still his hands were gentle as he continued to caress her.
She tore free of his hold and forced herself to look down her body. The ties at her bodice gaped free and with a strangled gasp she pressed her hands across her exposed cleavage.
Had all three raped her, while she watched Rome rape her entire culture?
And had Maximus come upon them, as she was being so brutally defiled?
Nausea churned at the foul scenario playing through her mind and she squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the world. Blocking out Maximus. How could she not remember any of it? How could she not feel the disgusting aftereffects of such violation?
“He didn’t rape you, Carys. I pulled him from you in time.”
There had been only one.
It was small comfort, for still he’d come upon her without her knowledge, while she had been so certain Cerridwen would ensure her safety.
But it had been Maximus who’d saved her. Maximus who had protected her honor. Relief, regret and revulsion churned, and a lingering aftertaste of the sacred root against her tongue caused her gut to contract. She struggled to the edge of the bed as sweat slicked her skin, feverishly pushing Maximus, but he refused to be pushed.
She gave up. And vomited the contents of her stomach over the floor.
When Aquila finally returned with Branwen, she slunk into the room as if she expected to be eaten. Maximus curbed his irritation and forced a smile.
“I understand you know the lady Carys.”
Branwen’s nervous glance flicked to the bed where Carys slept the sleep of the exhausted, not the enchanted.
When the pause lengthened and it became apparent Branwen wasn’t going to reply, he stepped toward her.
“The lady Carys,” he prompted.
Branwen began to tremble. “No, my lord.”
He refocused his attention, which had strayed to Carys. “What?”
“I don’t know her, my lord.”
He couldn’t believe this shaking excuse for a female had the audacity to lie to his face. “Indeed, I believe you do.”
“The Tribunus Laticlavius wishes you to personally attend to the lady Carys, Branwen.”
Branwen shot another fearful glance at Carys. “I’ll tend to the lady.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Maximus decided to make Carys’ position crystal clear. “The lady is my mistress. She is to be accorded the respect due to her elevated status.”
His words had an unexpected effect. Instead of looking suitably impressed that she had been chosen to attend to his woman, Branwen visibly jerked, as if he’d just imparted a shocking edict. The glare she tossed his way, before dropping her gaze to her feet, smoldered with surprising passion.
What was the matter with her? Anyone would think he’d just insulted Carys, by the way Branwen behaved.
He turned to Aquila. Much as he wanted to stay with Carys, duty called. “Ensure she understands,” he said, reverting to Latin. “I’ll arrange for the door to be repaired, food and drink to be delivered, but no one is to enter until I return.”
Carys stirred, and frowned when she saw Branwen peering at her, her eyes wide and fearful.
“My lady.” Branwen hitched in a sob. “Thank the gods you’re awake.”
Carys glanced around, but there was no sign of Maximus. “What are you doing here, Branwen?”
“The centurion brought me.” A faint blush brushed her cheeks and she avoided eye contact. “But it’s the other one—the Primus, although he’s called something else now—he’s imprisoned you, my lady.”
Branwen sounded so horrified, Carys had to hide a smile. She clasped the younger girl’s hand. “I’m not a prisoner. The Roman saved me from attack.”
“Whatever he did, he plans to dishonor you.” Branwen sank to her knees. “He’s going to use you, our princess, as his mistress.”
Pain tightened her chest. This was why she and Maximus could never have a future together. Her people would never accept his, could never contemplate a noble, a Druid, succumbing willingly to the enemy’s bed.
“I won’t allow myself to be used.” She tugged on Branwen’s hands, urging her to rise. “I can look after myself.”
“You must escape.” Branwen glanced wildly about, as if the means would suddenly appear. “Before he returns.”
“Yes.” It hurt to speak. Hurt to know that, once again, she was running from Maximus when all she wanted was to stay by his side. How many times would a man as proud as he forgive her?
With Branwen’s assistance she stood up, and the room tipped over. She gasped, staggered back, and sat heavily down on the bed again.
“My lady?” Branwen looked petrified. “What—what did the Roman do to you?”
It wasn’t the Roman. She had brought this on herself.
“I haven’t eaten since I broke my fast.” How long ago that seemed. “I can’t go anywhere until I’ve regained my energy.”
After a simple meal of fruits and freshly baked bread, she stood, thankful the world no longer rocked like a boat. It would take her hours to reach the spiral, and the prospect of such a long walk filled her with dread.
Suppose she was attacked yet again? It was unlikely in the extreme Maximus would miraculously appear for a third time to save her honor. The next time, she would have to rely on her skill with her dagger.
Where was her medicine bag? Had it been left at the Cauldron?
She’d have to rescue it first thing in the morning. And since her dagger was in her bag, she picked up the knife she had recently used to eat with. It was sufficiently sharp. It would slice through clothes and flesh with equal ease.
She turned to Branwen. “I want you to do something for me.”
“Anything, my lady.” But fear caused the younger girl’s eyes to widen and voice to tremble.
“It’s a small thing, but important. I want you to promise me that you’ll tell no one I was here today.”
Branwen blinked a couple of times, as if she had expected a far more terrifying command. “Of—of course. Whatever you wish.”
“This can’t become common knowledge. If word reached my fellow Druids, another battle would rage. Do you understand?”
But before Branwen could respond, the door burst open, and Maximus entered.