Tacitus scowled at his friend’s retreating back before ensuring that the legionary guarding the tent was far enough away so as not to have overheard the conversation.
Then he yanked down the flap and turned to face his Celt.
She was looking at him as if he was a plague-ridden leper.
“And why shouldn’t I know of my countrymen’s fate?” Her voice was haughty. “Would you be silent in my place?”
He’d expected her to rant in fury at his command, not coldly question him. He wasn’t used to people questioning his commands and, for the life of him, he couldn’t recall a single instance when a woman had.
There was a time and place to be entertained by this barbaric Celt’s behavior and now, when he needed to be by his commander’s side, was neither.
“I’m not in your place, and the likelihood of my ever being so is remote.” He wrenched off his tunic and tossed it onto the pallet he’d tried to sleep on last night. “Therefore your question is redundant.”
When she didn’t immediately respond he shot her an irritated glance and saw how she stared, riveted, at his erect cock. The look on her face was a heady combination of shocked disbelief and blatant lust.
He gritted his teeth and grabbed his clean tunic that lay across the top of his casket. He was in need of a fuck, a bath and a long, relaxing massage but the most he could look forward to today was, most likely, supervising the dismantling of this camp.
“My questions,” her voice was husky and only when the linen covered him did she drag her gaze up to his face, “are deserving of answers.” The tip of her tongue moistened her lips. “You have no right to deny me such knowledge.”
In the process of swinging his cloak over his shoulders, he slung her a disbelieving glance. True, he didn’t want her to behave like a slave. But gods, did she really have no idea when she should hold her tongue? No woman of his acquaintance was so insistent on having the last word once a man had made himself clear.
“I don’t have time to pander to your whims.” He fixed his fibula to his shoulder. “Remain here. I’ll have food sent to you, and water so you can wash.” Cursed inconvenient none of his personal servants were here. But back at the garrison, he could ensure she was looked after properly in his absence.
She let out a surprisingly loud hiss.
“You’re doing it again. Stop giving me orders. And if you refuse to answer my questions then tell me that. Don’t pretend my concerns are mere whims.” She spat the word as if it offended her.
It probably did.
He realized he was staring at her when, slave or not, he should be telling her—once again—to be silent.
Only this time she didn’t need to remain silent for her safety. This time she needed to be silent because…
Because she talked too much. He’d never met a woman who talked as much as she did. At least, not one that talked of such things that continually irked and astounded him.
It had been different by the mountain stream when sexual awareness had sizzled in the air and he’d been so certain of having her. It had been blatantly erotic, early this morn, when she had openly defied him. Yet even then she’d continued to push beyond acceptable boundaries and she was doing it again.
“I refuse to answer your questions.” He waited for her exclamation of outrage, but it didn’t come. She just glowered at him. His balls ached, his cock throbbed and frustration thundered through his veins. “For your own safety you’ll remain here. If you’re hungry, you will eat the food I provide. And if you have any self-respect,” he emphasized the words with heavy sarcasm, “you’ll use the water to wash the filth from your body.”
He watched the mortified blush spread over her cheeks, as if she understood the full intent of his barbed remark. His scowl deepened when a stab of regret pierced his conscience. Gods, as if it mattered whether he had injured her feelings or not, so long as she cleaned herself up?
“And if I am to remain here, how am I to relieve myself?” Despite the way he had just intentionally insulted her, pride spiked her words. Somehow that made him feel even worse.
It took him a moment to understand her meaning. And then he was the one who felt heat crawling up his face.
By the gods. He’d never spoken of such intimacies before. It wasn’t something he wished to experience again, either.
He had no intention of allowing her to use the latrines. Not even if he accompanied her to ensure no other legionary entered while she was…relieving herself.
“I’ll have a bucket brought for you.”
“A bucket?” She sounded as if she had never heard of such an item. Except the look of horrified disgust on her face assured him she knew exactly what a bucket was and the thought of using it filled her with revulsion.
“I’ll return later.” He turned to leave, then hesitated. “If you need anything, ask the legionary on duty outside.” He’d give instructions that the Celt’s wishes were to be relayed to him instantly. “But don’t attempt to engage him in conversation.”
“Why would I want to engage a filthy Roman in conversation?” Her voice was belligerent and there was a proud tilt to her chin. But as she folded her arms, her hand cradled the elbow of her injured arm and that single gesture tore through his chest.
In spite of her brave words, she was a vulnerable woman. Little more than a girl. Although she was here with him, although she belonged to him, this was not how he had imagined it when he’d come across her on the mountain.
But this was the reality. When she was in a more accommodating frame of mind—when they were back at the garrison and he’d had time to make the necessary arrangements—he’d tell her she was his concubine. And he could wipe the unsavory fact that he had purchased her from his mind.
“No reason.” He preferred she spoke to no one. Then no one could inadvertently betray her status. His mind lingered on his recent thoughts and although he was perilously close to being late for his meeting with the commander he couldn’t help himself. “How old are you?”
For a moment, he didn’t think she was going to answer. Then she let out a long sigh.
“This is my twenty-second summer.”
He barely hid his surprise. She was older than he’d imagined, scarcely two years younger than he was.
“Well?” She sounded irked by his continued silence. “How old are you, Tacitus?”
For the second time that morning, her use of his personal name stunned him. Of course, once she was his concubine he intended she would call him that, but it was a privilege not something anyone could refer to him by.
Certainly not a slave. It was a wonder Marcellus hadn’t remarked upon it.
“You have me at a disadvantage.” There was no reason to make an issue of it. No one would know but Marcellus, and his friend would repeat nothing of what had occurred during the course of his house call. “I don’t yet know your name.”
“Oh.” She sounded scathing. “I believe we’re even, Roman, since I know your name and you know my age.”
Why couldn’t she answer a simple, civilized question? And why was he standing here conversing with her when his commander waited?
“If you prefer I can give you a new name. A Roman name.” Not that he truly intended to. It was too closely entwined with ownership and slavery. “I’ve no intention of referring to you as Celt for the remainder of our liaison.”
Her lips thinned in clear annoyance. Whether it was the threat of him renaming her or the fact he intended for them to enjoy a liaison, he wasn’t sure.
“You may address me as Nimue.” She sounded as though she conferred a great honor.
“Nimue.” It was an unusual name, like nothing he had heard before. But since Nimue herself was like no other woman he’d ever encountered, her name suited her perfectly. “I like it.”
If he expected a positive response to his remark, he should have known better. She shrugged her good shoulder and gave him a look that suggested he had just crawled from beneath a steaming pile of manure.
“It’s the only name I’ll answer to.”
And then, as if she were an empress and he a lowly plebeian, she turned her back on him.
Tacitus was still seething with unrequited lust and justifiable fury at Nimue’s insolence when he arrived at his commander’s tent. His temper didn’t improve when he saw Blandus was already there.
Why the fuck wasn’t he with his own commander?
“We’re leaving today,” the commander said without preamble. “Inform the centurions.”
“Very well.” Tacitus glanced at his cousin. “Shouldn’t you be with Ostorius Scapula?”
“Already received my orders for the day.” Blandus fingered the hilt of his sword. “Two of our cohorts are to remain behind and scour the countryside for any stragglers. I doubt they’ll find Caratacus but who can say? We picked up one of his brothers at first light this morning.”
Tacitus jerked his head. “If that’s all, I’ll give the Primus his orders.” He needed to work off some of this excess energy. Keep his mind occupied so Nimue’s haughty face didn’t incessantly intrude.
Gods. He’d not envisaged she would be so hard to please once she’d regained her senses. All he needed was for her to accept the desire that burned between them. Why was that so hard? He knew, as surely as he knew he had only three more months left to serve in the Legions, that once he’d had her, this frenzied need in his blood would abate.
Then he could enjoy her barbed tongue and seductive body at nights, and forget about her during the days.
“So, Tacitus…” Blandus’ smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Is the reason you’re so late this morning due to that delectable little slave you purchased yesterday?”
“What, the child?” The commander glanced up from the scrolls he was scrutinizing to frown at Tacitus.
“Hardly a child, my esteemed uncle.” Blandus gave a mirthless laugh. “She certainly tempted my noble cousin to forsake his mighty principles. Although the glower on your face, Tacitus, suggests she wasn’t as accommodating as you supposed.”
“The Celt,” for some reason he didn’t feel disposed to tell Blandus her name, “is still recovering from her injury.”
“She was shot in the shoulder, not between her thighs. I’m sure she’s more than able to spread her legs with suitable encouragement.”
“And that,” Tacitus said, hanging onto his temper by the slenderest of threads, “is something only I will ever know.”
“By Mars.” Amusement lurked in the commander’s tone. “Aren’t you boys too old to be fighting over your female entertainment?”
“There’s nothing to fight over.” Tacitus flexed his fingers and maintained eye contact with his now-scowling cousin. “The woman is mine. No discussion.”
The commander slapped him on the shoulder. “She must be quite something, Tacitus. I look forward to making her acquaintance.”