An eerie chill trickled along Nimue's spine, causing
the hair to rise on the back of her neck and arms. Without
thinking she leaped to her feet, dagger once again in her
hand. But it wasn't a lone legionary who had caught her so
unawares. It was a mounted Roman officer, in a flowing
scarlet cloak, with his shield in one hand and sword in the
other.
For a moment all she could feel was the erratic thud of
her heart in her ears, the uneven gasp of her breath in her
throat. The sun dazzled her, glinting off the polished
metal of his armor as he stared down at her, and obscurely
she noted his impressive biceps, his muscles flexing as he
urged his horse forward.
Flee. The command whispered in her mind, faint and
insubstantial. But the treacherous rocks on her right, the
fast flowing stream at her back and the steep bank on the
far side did not offer her a speedy escape. But somehow she
had to lead him farther away from the queen and princess.
Except he had effectively trapped her by the edge of the
stream.
Yet even as the weight of her responsibility tormented
her conscience, she couldn't drag her fascinated gaze from
the Roman. His face was hard, autocratic, unsmiling. The
face of countless Romans, and yet like none she had ever
seen before. His eyes were narrowed, his strong jaw
shadowed. And the tip of his sword was a mere arm's length
from her face.
"Surrender to the might of the Eagle," he said in the
ancient Celtic language of her people. His voice was deep,
sensuous, and dark embers stirred between her thighs, as if
she faced a brave warrior of Cymru instead of a cowardly
barbarian of Rome. "And you shall remain unharmed."
Her palm was sweaty around her dagger and she tightened
her grip before it slipped from her grasp. She might not
have a chance against this Roman but she would never
surrender to him. And she would never willingly give up her
weapons, either.
"I would sooner die fighting you," she said in Latin,
just to show him she was no ignorant native of a fractured
land. Her mother had taught her the language well. "Than
surrender my freedom to your filthy Emperor."
She had no freedom under Rome. As soon as they
discovered she was a Druid, her life would be forfeit.
Crucifixion was terrifying enough, but it was the torture
she would doubtless endure beforehand that shriveled her
soul.
His black stallion whickered, pawed the ground, but the
Roman did not break eye contact nor did his sword waver.
"Brave words, little Celt." Still he spoke in her
language, and disbelief unfurled through her breast at the
tone of his voice. Did he find her challenge amusing? "But
I don't fight women."
She ignored the threat of his sword and stepped
forward, her dagger on clear display. He had no right to
enter her land and then mock her prowess as a warrior. Just
because she did not possess the brute strength of a
full–grown male didn't mean she lacked dexterity or
speed. She glared up at him, wishing, obscurely, she could
see the color of his eyes.
"Why? Are you afraid I may unman you?" Why was she
trying to raise his ire? Wouldn't it make more sense to beg
for freedom? Pretend to be a mere peasant, caught up in
this revolt? Perhaps, then, he would allow her to escape
without persecution?
Even as the thought teased her mind she knew the silver
bracelets on her wrists, the torque at her throat and
jewels in her ears plainly branded her as anything but a
peasant.
For one brief moment the corner of his lips quirked, as
if he found her not only amusing but highly entertaining.
"I believe," his voice was a seductive caress along the
naked flesh of her arms, the exposed swell of her
breasts. "I am more than man enough for you, Celt.""
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