Chapter One
The forest was quiet. Too quiet. Her horse shifted in clear
unease and Morwyn glanced at her three companions.
“What do you see?” Einion’s voice was hushed.
Morwyn clamped her teeth together to prevent the harsh
response from tumbling into the unnatural silence. What did
she see? Did they think her a seer, a tool of their cursed
goddess, the Morrigan?
She half expected an unearthly fire to consume
her for her treacherous thoughts, but none did. She
loosened her grip on the reins and took a deep breath.
Her companions believed in her powers. It was
the reason they’d left the Isle of Mon and ventured with
her back into the occupied territories of their beloved
Cymru.
If she were successful in her quest to discover
the heart of the rebellion they would return to the Druid
sanctuary and tell the others. She wasn’t the only one who
longed to fight for freedom rather than hide in sacred
groves dedicated to cowardly gods. And then a great army of
Druids would join the displaced Briton king Caratacus, who
was causing such disruption to the despised Roman Legions.
“Caratacus is close.” She knew that, and it had
nothing to do with visions from the gods. She no longer had
visions. No matter what her fellow Druids might think. Her
knowledge was based on information gleaned from those who
had arrived on Mon over the last few moons, and her resolve
to join the insurgents had strengthened when Gawain left
the Isle to stand by the Catuvellauni king, Caratacus.
A sharp pain sliced through her breast, raw and
savage, jagged with guilt, as she recalled Gawain. The man
who had loved her. The man she had tried so hard to love in
return, but never had.
Because her heart had belonged to another.
Her grip tightened on the reins. She would
avenge Gawain’s death with the last breath in her lungs,
the last drop of blood in her veins. He had loved her, and
he deserved nothing less from her.
She would never succumb as a slave of Rome.
She’d rather a glorious death in the midst of battle,
securing the freedom of her people.
“How close?” Drustan, another young Druid and
like both Einion and Morcant not yet fully trained, glanced
around the edge of the glade as if expecting the Briton to
miraculously appear before them.
They expected her to proclaim a sign. She was
the most senior Druid here, and yet even she hadn’t
finished her training before the bloodied invasion had
devastated their existence. But no older Druid from Mon had
wanted to take the chance of returning to Cymru without
solid, irrefutable proof of where, precisely, the Briton
king commanded his rebels.
No light summer breeze rustled the leaves on
the looming trees. The air hung heavy and still as if
waiting for the wheel of life to turn, to irretrievably
alter her course forever.
An eerie shiver inched along her spine and
chills scuttled over her arms, raising the fine hairs.
Instinctively she curled her fingers around the jewel-
encrusted dagger secured at her waist. She no longer
believed in her gods and no longer received their signs,
and the only thing that was about to change was that Rome
would discover her mistake in enslaving Cymru.
Wind rushed, barely a handbreadth from her face
and Einion lurched from his horse, an arrow embedded in his
throat. For one agonizing moment Morwyn froze as she
watched him slide to the tangled undergrowth, shock glazing
his dying eyes, before her warrior training and self-
preservation kicked hard in her gut.
She swung her horse around, rejecting her
dagger in favor of her spear, as a handful of riders
emerged from the concealing trees. This wasn’t the way
Romans fought. But she had no time to curse their tactics
nor berate her lack of foresight as the forest erupted with
Druid war cries, barbarian yells and the frenzied snorts
and thundering of attacking horses.
Sweat and blood and the stench of fear from
animal and man drenched the air. They were outnumbered. But
not outmatched. Morwyn drove her spear upward at an angle,
pierced through the shapeless mail shirt worn by the enemy
and scarlet pumped over his scale armor, staining man and
beast and trampled forest floor.
Savage satisfaction pounded through her veins
as he opened his mouth in a silent scream. They would teach
these Romans to ambush them, to take them by surprise, to –
Her breath punched from her lungs as something
slammed into her back, pushing her forward, pushing her
dangerously close to impaling her breast on the blunt end
of her spear. And then she was falling, with the loathsome
weight on top of her and she hit the ground with bone-
splintering force.
“Fucking barbarian bitch.” He hissed in Latin,
his mouth by her ear as she tried not to suffocate on the
churned and bloodied earth that pressed against her cheek
and nose and mouth. “Teach you to respect your masters.”
Muscles tensed as he ripped her gown from her
neck, exposing her back to the elements and the
accompanying jeers of the remainder of the enemy. Where
were Drustan and Morcant? Had they perished? Was she the
only one left?
Nausea rolled through her stomach, clogged her
throat. She was willing to die for her people but she’d
envisaged a great and glorious battle not an insignificant
skirmish. Not degradation and rape. She blocked out the
obscenities being thrown her way and stealthily reached for
her dagger.
Brennus rode through the forest, taking unseen paths and
hidden tracks so there was no possibility of the Legion’s
auxiliary exploratores discovering an unwary passage to the
stronghold of the mighty Caratacus.
If the Legion discovered who Bren truly was,
even crucifixion would be considered too easy a death. But
he had no intention of letting the Roman bastards discover
his true identity, not until it was too late for them to do
anything about it.
Not until their Roman blood drenched the earth
and the conquered lands were free once again.
Within moments of leaving the hidden enclave he
heard the unmistakable sounds of battle ahead and pulled up
short. He couldn’t be seen. By now, he should already be
across the border on his way to the Roman headquarters at
Camulodunon – Camulodunum – in Britain, one hundred and
sixty miles to the east, to deliver a military dispatch.
The dispatch he’d just smuggled to his king.
Something drew him closer. Trees thinned, and
he caught sight of the very exploratores he served with.
The battle – such as it had been – was over. From the
coarse comments it was clear a woman had been taken captive
and they weren’t wasting any time before enjoying their
spoils.
His gut tightened with distaste. To preserve
his deception he had, in the past, fought in the line of
duty to Rome, even slaughtered compatriots. Sacrifice a few
to ensure the freedom of many. War was a bitch and
casualties a fact of life. Warriors knew the odds – defeat
or victory.
Today, that small band of Celtic warriors had
paid the ultimate price.
He jerked his horse around, prepared to head
deeper into the forest. But fetid memories clawed through
his soul and phantom screams of agony pierced his brain,
shredded his heart. Mercy begged for and denied. Compassion
trampled underfoot and the sour stench of spilled blood
scorched his throat.
Futile rage seared his veins, momentarily
blinded his vision as the foul recollections scalded his
reason. Within a moment he regained control, regained his
senses and against every logical, tactical instinct he
urged his mount toward the others.
The woman might be a warrior trained for
battle, but he still couldn’t stomach the thought of her
being brutalized before butchered.
So engrossed in humiliating their victim, not
one of the scouts turned at his approach. A cursory glance
disproved his earlier supposition, and a fresh wave of
disgust roiled through his blood.
These Celts were no warriors. They were traders.
Dead traders.
Bren dismounted, shoved the nearest man from
his path.
“Dunmacos,” the man said, using the hated name
Bren had appropriated three torturous years ago. “Just in
time for a turn with the Cambrian whore.”
“After me,” Trogus grunted, as he hunched over
the partially naked woman. “Turn over, bitch, or I’ll fuck
your arse instead.”
She wasn’t crying in fear, or begging for
mercy. She was so silent for a moment Bren thought her
already dead. Until he saw her fingers curl around the
handle of her dagger.
He thrust Trogus aside, dropped to his knees
and gripped her wrist in a bone-crushing vise. Instantly
her face lifted from the dirt, and infuriated, dark eyes
flashed at him.
Something hard punched through his chest, as if
he’d just ridden full pelt into a stone turret. Even
covered in filth and blood the woman’s strong Celtic beauty
glowed through, condemning him for daring to touch her. For
denying her the satisfaction of using her dagger.
“Get out the fucking way, Dunmacos.” Trogus
gave the woman’s thigh a brutal kick, and she winced but
still didn’t make a sound. Her eyes never left Bren's. “You
can go next, if I leave anything worth having.”
He didn’t loosen his grip on her wrist. She
didn’t loosen her hold on her dagger.
“No.” He didn’t bother looking up at Trogus. “I
claim this one. And in return I won’t advise the praefectus
you attacked and murdered a group of traders.” Only then
did he glance up and catch the furious gleam in Trogus’s
lust-glazed eyes. “I never came across you.”
Trogus hissed between clenched teeth, but there
was nothing to discuss. Bren outranked him. Outranked all
of the exploratores here. And that wasn’t all. The
praefectus of their auxiliary unit trusted him implicitly.
As much as any Roman would trust a foreigner.
“Take her, then.” Trogus spat on the ground and
looked as if he’d like to kick her again. Instead he flung
Bren a smoldering glare as if something had just occurred
to him. “What are you doing here?”
“Dispatches. I’ll take the woman to warm my bed
at nights.”
“She’ll butcher you in your sleep.” The sneer
Trogus arrowed his way suggested he’d very much like to
witness such an occurrence. “We’ll take the goods as
compensation. Unless you have any objection, Dunmacos?” It
was a covert threat. Any other time Bren would have risen
to the challenge but right now another challenge glared at
him from the ground.
Not that he’d let Trogus get away with such
insolence entirely. “Take all but the woman’s personal
items. I don’t want to have purchase another gown for her.”
As the scouting party rifled through the
traders packs, Bren leaned toward the woman and spoke in
the local dialect.
“Drop your dagger.”
Beneath his fingers he felt her grip tighten,
although he knew the pressure he exerted around her wrist
was close to shattering bones. But she made no other
movement, as if realizing that, for the moment, her best
chance of unmolested survival was by laying low and
remaining still.
Within moments, the exploratores had claimed
their spoils and were leading the riderless horses away,
back to the garrison. With little effort he rolled the
woman onto her back, holding her wrists above her head. It
would be easy to break a bone, give her no choice but to
abandon her dagger. How much more satisfying, though,
should she decide to discard it of her own free will…
“Drop your weapon, and I give you my word
you’ll remain unharmed.”
Her lips parted. Full, luscious. Inviting.
Without warning his cock pulsed, a sharp reminder of how
long it had been since he’d taken a woman, how long it had
been since he’d even enjoyed solitary relief.
“Roman coward.” Her voice was breathless, her
Latin accented but clearly educated. Enticing tendrils of
luxuriant black hair escaped her braid and framed her dirt
and blood-smeared face. “Your word means nothing to me.”
“I’m no Roman.” He answered her in the same
language and kneed her thighs apart, bracing his weight on
forearms and knees, trying yet failing to smother his
unwelcome arousal. Gods, he wanted her. The contemptible
need pounded through his arteries, vibrated against his
temples. “I’m from Gaul.”
Her lips curled back, exposing white, unbroken
teeth. “Then you’re worse. A spineless mercenary for their
gutless Emperor.”
For a moment Morwyn thought she’d pushed him
too far. His eyes, an extraordinary shade that reminded her
of new leaves unfurling, glinted with danger and his
fingers tightened around her tender wrists.
But she wanted to push him too far. Wanted him
to lose control, just for an instant, so she could plunge
her dagger into his heart and escape this ignoble fate.
Instead, his odious erection brushed against
her and she tensed, waiting for the inevitable attack,
waiting for a scalding surge of revulsion to flood her
captured flesh. But he made no further move to mortify her,
his gaze roaming over her face as if he were memorizing
every tiny detail.
Liquid heat bloomed deep within, so shocking,
so unwanted, the pleasure mutated into pain. A dark,
dangerous pain that speared through her womb and trembled
through her damp channel. She clenched her teeth, clenched
her muscles, but still tremors of despicable desire
vibrated with tempting promise through her long-abandoned
clit. How could her body be capable of such brutal a
betrayal?
This was her sworn enemy. A man intent on rape
and humiliation.
And she wanted him.
“Be wary.” His breath singed her lips but it
wasn’t foul, wasn’t repulsive. “Such careless words can be
mistaken for treason.”
Once again his rigid cock brushed against the
seam of her lips and she wanted to spread her thighs, pull
him into her. Feel the hardness of male strength thrust
deep inside as he took her violently, mindlessly, so she
could forget, for a few fleeting moments, everything but
exquisite physical pleasure.
His green eyes scorched her. His muscular body
pinned her helplessly against the undergrowth of the forest
floor. How easy it would be to succumb to the lust blazing
through her blood, the lust reflected in every hard,
unyielding angle of her captor’s face.
But she had sworn never to take another man again. Never
again worship the goddess who had manipulated her loyalty,
betrayed her trust and scorned her love.
The Morrigan could suffer her abstinence.
Morwyn would honor her vow of celibacy, the vow she’d made
the night her entire world had shattered.
“I would never betray my people. Your Emperor
doesn’t have my loyalty.”
He closed the small distance between them,
broad chest flattening her sensitive breasts and aching
nipples, his chain mail serving only to accentuate every
ragged breath he took.
“Who are you, Celt?” There was command in the
question, despite the desire and through the heavy thud of
arousal a spark of warning pierced her lust-drenched brain.
She would succumb to no man. Would never bow
before the invaders of her land. But if this Gallic
bastard, a mercenary for Rome, didn’t mean to kill her
outright there was chance for escape.
A chance that would vanish instantly should he
discover her true origins.
The Emperor hated Druids, afraid of the
spiritual power they held over their people. Since that
night, a full turn of the wheel ago, when the great
goddess, the Morrigan and Arawn, lord of the Otherworld -
when all their gods - had deserted them and they had fled
to the Isle of Mon, his hatred had grown. Fractured reports
had reached them of the merciless slayings. That was why
when she and the others left Mon they hid their Druidry,
disguised themselves as traders.
Such subterfuge hadn’t saved the lives of
Einion, Drustan or Morcant. But it might possibly extend
hers.
“You know what I am.” It was hard to keep her
voice level, hard to hide the erratic flutter of her
treacherous heart. So cursed hard to keep her thighs
utterly still when they ached to wrap around this
barbarian’s hips and crush him into her hungering embrace.
Silence, as if he contemplated her
words. “Traders.” He paused, raked his eyes over her face
and she held her breath, willing her pulses to slow but if
anything they hammered more rapidly than before. Then he
glanced above her head, at the exquisitely crafted gold
bracelets that adorned her wrists. She hoped he had no idea
of their true value. No trader could afford to wear such
riches. Why had she insisted on wearing them? “From where?”
She flexed numb fingers around her dagger, then
gripped it more securely when she felt his hold upon her
wrist momentarily lighten. Her limbs were deadening but if
he gave her the slenderest of opportunities she wouldn’t
hesitate to slash open his throat.
“Why? So you can send your band of Gallic
mercenaries to slaughter more innocents?”
“No. So I can verify your words.”
If she directed him to a nearby village, would
he truly spend time discovering if she spoke the truth or
not? She doubted it. He was delivering dispatches for the
military. He’d told the filthy dogs who’d ambushed her he
intended to use her to warm his bed during the journey.
And he was alone. No, he wouldn’t waste time
verifying her word when her word was of no account, when
all he saw when he looked at her was a woman he could use
for sexual satisfaction.
“Two days ride west. I’ll tell you no more than
that.”
His eyes narrowed as if he didn’t believe
her. “And where were you heading?”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “To the new Roman
fortification. The civilian settlement is always hungry for
our goods.”
From somewhere deeper in the forest a wood
warbler’s shivering song shattered the taut silence. Before
she realized his intention his forearm pinned hers securely
to the ground, bringing the length of his body against
hers. Heavy, masculine. How long had it been since she’d
been crushed beneath a man, since she’d been held, touched,
wanted?
The grip around her wrist increased beyond
endurance but still she held on, despite the stabbing
pains, despite the way her vision flickered. He’d have to
kill her before she relinquished the only weapon she
possessed.
With his free hand he prized her deadened
fingers from the hilt of her dagger and she could do
nothing to stop him. His body enslaved her from ankles to
thighs, hips to breasts, and now that he gripped her dagger
he released her throbbing wrist.
She panted into his dark, foreign face. A face
that wasn’t Roman but beneath his helmet he had the hated
Roman military hair. Short, stark. Nothing to grip in lust
or fury.
“What are you waiting for?” She flung the words
at him in her own language. “Fuck me and have done with it.”
And she wouldn’t embrace him. Wouldn’t wrap her
legs around him. Wouldn’t succumb to the despicable need
spiraling through her blood; the need to have a man in her
arms, a man inside her body.
Rape was abhorrent to her people. To their
gods. And especially to the Morrigan. She’d endure his
assault because there was nothing else she could do, but it
would mean nothing. It wouldn’t touch her. Wouldn’t break
her.
And by the sacred blood of all her ancestors,
she’d find a way to slaughter him afterward.
For a long moment their eyes clashed. His cock
seared her, hard and solid and demanding despite the
barrier of his tunic and her ruined gown. Heat ignited;
muscles clenched; her flesh trembled for satisfaction.
He raised himself onto his hands, his groin
still melded with hers. Tempting her with the savage
delight he could offer.
No. Sex with the enemy could never be a
delight. She tried to fist her fingers but they were still
numb, still uncoordinated. She glared at him instead,
daring him to comment on the way her body softened beneath
his in blatant invitation.
A smile twisted his lips. As if he knew exactly
what was going through her mind. Curse her despised gods,
but how she would relish plunging her dagger into him,
castrating him before ending his miserable, misbegotten
existence.
He rolled off her, kneeled beside her and
contemplated her as if she were his own personal property.
She refused to smooth down her crumpled gown or wipe her
hair and filth from her face. Let him look long and hard at
how his compatriots had mistreated her.
“I’ve no intention of taking you in the open
forest, Celt, where anyone could stumble upon us.” He raked
his glance over her and she gritted her teeth, refusing to
acknowledge the foul ripple of disappointment that
shuddered low in her gut at his words. “I’ll wait until you
beg me.”