“Yes, so now our resources are more stretched than ever,” the first man said.
“Why?” It was a demand, and it was most certainly her Gaul. Morwyn held her breath, as if he might be able to hear her, but she couldn’t quell the thunderous staccato of her heart that echoed around the forest in horrified disbelief.
“No doubt the king will inform you.” The voice grew fainter as they marched farther into the forest.
“No doubt.” Even from a distance, her Gaul sounded grim.
She fell onto her knees and dug her fingers into the dried earth. Her Gaul—Dunmacos. She would call him Dunmacos because he wasn’t her Gaul. He never had been her Gaul except inside the deepest recess of her heart. And no matter what the other man called him, no matter what lies Dunmacos had woven, she knew the truth.
And he was being taken directly to Caratacus.
She scrubbed her hands in the dirt, as if that might scrub the stain from her soul, but still the ache of betrayal consumed her. Staggering to her feet, she peered into the forest and caught a glimpse of the men ahead.
The other man knew him. Called him by name, even if it wasn’t his true name. That meant she hadn’t led him here. That meant he had been here before. Was trusted enough to be taken to Caratacus.
Nausea turned her stomach and caused her limbs to shiver. She’d thought she had nothing left to lose. She had been wrong.
Dunmacos was her enemy. He had murdered Gawain. But until now she’d never doubted his loyalty to his Roman masters.
It was, she now realized, something she’d clung to. His innate integrity.
Even that illusion was now torn from her. He possessed no integrity. No matter how much she hated the invaders or disliked the fact her Gaul had chosen a career as an auxiliary in their Legion, she’d drawn comfort from the knowledge he’d never lied to her. He hadn’t pretended to be on her side. Hadn’t tried to manipulate her by telling her what she wanted to hear.
He had pledged himself to the Roman Empire. She had grown to respect his choice even if she could never embrace it.
But it was a duplicitous facade. He had done nothing but lie to her from the moment they’d met. He was a Gaul, pledged to Rome and betraying them to the Britons. He was nothing more than a traitor to his people.
Just like Aeron.
She kept to the shadows as she followed the two men deeper into the forest. She may not have struck the blow that killed Aeron, but she had been the means to his destruction.
Just as now she had the means of destroying . . . her Gaul.
The forest opened to a clearing, where half a dozen steep slopes cut into the surrounding tree line. As she darted from the cover of one tree to the next she saw a group of men, who pulled back from their leader as Dunmacos and his companion entered the dusty clearing.
“Bren,” the man—Caratacus?—said, and Dunmacos fell to one knee in greeting. Morwyn shivered in distaste at his hypocrisy and slid cold fingers over the hilt of her dagger.
Caratacus jerked his head at his men, who instantly left the clearing. She pulled back into the shadows and held her breath, but none of them came close to her hiding place. Goddess, what lengths had Dunmacos gone to in the past, in order to have secured the king’s trust that he would dismiss his warriors?
When she returned her attention to the Briton, Dunmacos was once again on his feet. She edged closer until she was at the perimeter of the clearing, until she was a child’s stone’s throw away from the two men.
“. . . feared something had happened to detain you,” Caratacus said.
“No.” Her Gaul no longer looked deferential. In fact, he looked as if he was trying to hold on to his temper. “I thought you’d discarded your plans for outright combat.”
Queasiness churned. Dunmacos had inveigled himself very close to the seat of power if he could suggest such things without being accused of treason.
“No, Bren. You want to discard our plans. Not I.”
“Gods’ sakes, Caratacus!” The words erupted from his mouth. “The Romans will fucking slaughter us. Our warriors don’t have the discipline to meet them as equals on the killing fields.”
She huddled against the trunk of the tree, the rough bark scraping her face. Why was he cautioning against open combat? Just because he was betraying Rome didn’t mean he possessed any loyalty toward the Britons. Why would he care if Caratacus’ followers were slaughtered?
Was he was trying to prevent needless bloodshed for the Legion?
Except if he was deceiving the Romans, that makes even less sense. Whose side was he on?
For the first time anger flashed across Caratacus’ features. “Our warriors are fearless. We’re more than a match for the spineless Roman barbarians.”
Dunmacos swung on his heel and marched directly toward Morwyn. As if he knew her hiding place. But then he whirled and paced back to the Briton. “Our tactics are working. They’re sending the Legion of Ostorius Scapula from Camulodunon to boost morale. Continue as we have been and we will prevail.”
“Another Legion?” Caratacus expelled a breath between gritted teeth. “All the more reason to change tactics, Bren. They won’t be expecting it. We can wipe them out.”
She had never heard of Ostorius Scapula, but it was clear Dunmacos had gleaned that information from the dispatch he’d opened that night in Camulodunon. Goddess, she was so confused. Was he betraying the Romans or Caratacus?
An unsavory answer slithered into her mind. Both?
“And nothing I say can change your mind?”
“It was already done the last time we spoke, Bren. The last of our Druids and warriors are leaving this enclave today. I was waiting only for your return.”
Breath ragged, she stealthily retreated as a sickening realization clawed into her heart. Whatever the truth was, Caratacus believed Dunmacos was loyal to him. The Briton wouldn’t believe the word of her, a stranger, above that of a man he obviously trusted.
But it wasn’t that that sickened her. It was the knowledge she couldn’t expose her Gaul as a traitor, even now. Not to the Briton king, not to the Roman Legion.
She had no love for the Romans. But something deep inside her soul withered at the evidence Dunmacos could so easily betray those to whom he’d given his pledge.
The tip of a blade pierced between her shoulder blades and she froze. She’d been so intent on watching her Gaul, so intent on her tumultuous thoughts, she’d given no heed to where she was going. Would she be hauled before the king for eavesdropping, thrown at his feet in an ignoble heap?
In front of her Gaul?
“We meet again.” The hoarse whisper was eerily familiar although she couldn’t place it. She began to turn, and the blade jabbed against the top of her spine, paralyzing her in sudden terror. That voice. She recognized it, but from where?
A hand closed around her biceps and dragged her further back into the forest and she stumbled on the tangled roots, unable to see where she was going. Then he jerked her around and flung her against the broad trunk of a tree. And she remembered.
“You?” The word gasped, disbelieving, and instinctively her fingers flew to the hilt of her dagger. He grinned, a slashing of lips and a flash of teeth, and waved his own dagger in front of her eyes, stilling her hand.
“I’m guessing,” the Gaul barbarian said, “Dunmacos didn’t bring you here himself.”
She wasn’t going to talk about Dunmacos, not to this piece of filth. “You’re with Caratacus?” Was the entire auxiliary unit of the Legion working for the Briton king?
For a moment he didn’t answer, merely traced the tip of his blade along the length of her nose, over her compressed lips and jaw, until he came to a halt at the base of her throat. She hoped he couldn’t see how frantically her pulse raced. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly he affected her.
“Caratacus charged me with finding the bastard who’s been selling information to the Romans. You’re lucky you escaped when you did. He was out for your blood yesterday.”
She didn’t believe him. And yet in a dark corner of her mind his words made obscene sense. How else would he know she’d escaped Dunmacos the previous day?
“I’m more inclined to believe you’re the traitor, not him.”
“Yes, that would make it very convenient, wouldn’t it?” He trailed his dagger downward, as if it were an extension of his finger, tracing across the vulnerable swell of her breast. “But untrue. If you could see the slaughter his betrayal’s cost us. Children. Babies. A quagmire of innocent blood. All because Dunmacos would sell his soul for extra coin in his pouch.”
She forced a derisive laugh. “And you, a brutal would-be rapist, are the savior of Cymru?”
The tip of his dagger ripped through the top thread of her bodice. She refused to acknowledge his action and maintained eye contact. Because at the first flicker of distraction, she would strike.
He ripped through a second thread but didn’t even glance at his handiwork. “Caratacus trusts me with his life. Why else do you think he sent me undercover in the Legion to spy on Dunmacos?”
Within moments of leaving his king, Bren froze as the unmistakable voice of Trogus came from seemingly nowhere. Was he losing his mind? Was his fury over Caratacus’ plans causing him to hear things?
There wasn’t any way Trogus could have found his way into the hidden enclave. And then a chill scuttled along the back of his neck. He hadn’t been as meticulously careful in concealing his tracks this day. Gods, was it possible that because of his black preoccupation, Trogus had been able to follow him?
Bren unsheathed his dagger and turned in the direction from where the voice had originated. Although whom Trogus was talking to he couldn’t imagine. Far more likely the bastard would kill anyone he saw on sight.
And this was why they’d needed sufficient guards at the entrance. Gods, it drove him insane when—
“No one in their right senses would send a creature like you to spy on a warrior such as Dunmacos. He possesses more honor in one glance than you could hope to salvage in seven lifetimes.”
For one amplified, echoing heartbeat that vibrated every bone in his body and rattled his brain against his skull, Bren knew he had tumbled into madness.
Morwyn couldn’t be here. Captured by Trogus—once again—and forced to listen to the filthy lies that spewed from the other man’s mouth.
And instead of pleading for her life, or agreeing with Trogus in hopes of lowering his guard, she was defending Bren?
The last revelation slammed him back to the present. She was at Trogus’ mercy—there was no doubt in his mind of her predicament—and yet she defended him against Trogus?
“Bastard fooled you easy enough.” Trogus sounded amused. Bren edged forward and now he could see how Trogus had Morwyn pinned against a tree, how his dagger traced insolently over her partially exposed breast. “Would you like me to tell you of his bloodlust as he slaughters your countrymen for the might of Rome?”
Bren sucked in a calming breath through his mouth, but his blood boiled in his veins at the knowledge it was his fault Trogus had found the enclave. His fault Morwyn was, yet again, in danger.
He angled into position, calculated the distance and drew his sword in his free hand on the slender possibility that his first assault wouldn’t sufficiently disable Trogus.
Morwyn laughed, the sound sharp and eerie and wrong, and it momentarily threw Bren off balance. “How much longer do you intend to regale me with the bold deeds of Dunmacos? Can it be his exploits excite you? Is that the only way your putrid worm of a cock thickens?”
Curse the gods, what was she thinking? Did she want Trogus to plunge the dagger through her heart? Even from this distance Bren could see the mad gleam in the other man’s eyes. Without waiting for further proof of Morwyn’s inability to protect her self-interests, he sent the dagger flying and it impaled Trogus’ cheek, hurling him to the ground.
Bren covered the short distance in an instant, intending to prize Morwyn from the tree and crush her in his arms to comfort her. But she was already on her knees by Trogus, who was trying desperately to tug Bren’s dagger from his cheek, and she gripped his hair in one hand, forcing his head back so his throat was fully exposed.
“You fucking barbarian,” she said clearly, before she spat in his face and opened his artery. Then she dropped his head, wiped her blade on the grass and looked up.