Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (9 page)

Only with difficulty did Bren refrain from slamming the door so it shattered in its frame. Instead he watched the woman and boys deposit their offerings on top of the chest before making their way back to him.

Except one of the boys hovered, clearly besotted by the wet vision before him.

“Do you need any help, mistress?”

“Daric! Get over here.” Horror laced the woman’s tone, as if she expected Bren to behead the boy for such audacity.

“No, thank you.” Morwyn sounded like a queen addressing one of her loyal subjects and the smile she bestowed on the lad knotted Bren’s guts, although he wasn’t sure why. “The Gaul can attend to my needs.”

She made him sound like her slave. An odd thread of amusement slithered through him at the thought and again he wondered who she truly was. Somehow he couldn’t envisage her as a trader, someone who haggled and compromised and knew when to hold her tongue or smother her pride.

His illogical irritation against the boys evaporated. They weren’t attacking and Morwyn was in no danger. He strode back to her and shoved the boy toward the door. “You can empty this tub now.”

As the three of them scuttled from the room he turned to her. She was staring at him, a frown creasing her brow, as if she was trying to work something out.

“Does everyone cower before you in terror?”

Her question shouldn’t matter. And yet a dull ache punched through his chest, instantly gone, but the echo remained.

Not a flicker of such emotion touched his face. “I’ve yet to see you cower before me, Morwyn.”

She arched her eyebrows. “And you never will, Gaul.” She glanced at his outstretched hand, as if contemplating whether or not to accept his assistance. And then he recalled her injured leg.

“Do you wish me to lift you out?”

Her eyes glittered in the flickering glow from the lamps. For a moment he thought she was going to accept his offer. But then she glanced at the open door and appeared to reconsider.

“I can manage.” She tucked the cloth securely around her breasts, gripped the edge of the tub and gingerly lifted her injured leg. Even in this muted light he could see the ugly bruises marring her lower thigh.

Trogus would pay. With interest.

With a smothered sigh she sat on the edge of the bed and began to dry her legs with the second cloth. Her movements were graceful, sensuous, but she appeared unaware of her seduction. There were no sideways glances, no fluttering of eyelashes. She appeared on the verge of exhaustion.

Bren shifted his weight from one foot to the other but it did nothing to relieve the arousal thudding along the length of his shaft. Why had he arranged for food to be delivered to their room? Without such interruption they could now be slaking their desire.

But no. He’d not wanted others to see Morwyn’s battered face when they ate in the tavern. Hadn’t wanted to tolerate the inevitable muffled whispers, be the recipient of more distrustful looks, have his character assassinated yet again for actions he’d not committed.

The boys returned, began to empty the tub with their buckets. He dragged his gaze from the hypnotic sweep of Morwyn’s hands along her legs and strode to the chest.

“I trust you’re hungry.”

“So long as it’s not filthy Roman imports.” She dried her arms, seemingly unaware or unconcerned by the furtive glances thrown her way by the boys as they entered and left the room.

He sniffed the guinea fowl. “Imported, yes. But not filthy.”

Her sigh was audible. He looked over at her as she dried her hair with the cloth, and she caught his gaze. “I’m so famished I’ll eat their heathen food. My pride doesn’t extend to starving myself over such a minor point.”

His lip twitched but through sheer force of habit he suppressed the smile that threatened to escape. Gods. He’d met her only a few hours ago yet she’d tempted him to laughter more often this day than he could recall during the last half-dozen years.

“I’m glad your survival instincts are so strong.”

She gave the ends of her hair one final squeeze before tossing the saturated cloth onto the floor by the now-emptied tub. “My survival instincts are intact.” She pushed herself from the bed and came beside him to frown at the food. The top of her head didn’t even reach his jaw. “I doubt it will kill me to eat such barbarous offerings on occasion.”

Her fresh scent invaded his senses, clean and pure. But she appeared utterly focused on the food, as if their earlier interaction had never occurred.

As the boys dragged the tub from the room and finally shut the door, Bren handed her a plate. “You may find you like it.”

She wrinkled her nose as she scooped up some carrots. “There’s nothing wrong with our own food. These people are Britons. Why do they serve Roman muck?”

He tore the guinea fowl into portions and dropped a quarter onto her plate. She stared at it as if he’d just offered her a severed hand.

“Not everything foreign is inherently inferior.”

Morwyn wiped a finger across the poultry and then licked the flavor with her tongue. Her frown didn’t waver. “It is when the foreigners concerned are Romans.”

Mostly, he agreed. But he’d lived the Roman way for too many years now not to have seen advantages to their systems. Their military system in particular. They hadn’t conquered the civilized world through luck alone, no matter how his people might wish that was so.

“Sometimes survival calls for compromise.” As he’d compromised for the last few years, inveigling himself with the enemy to learn their weaknesses, exploit their arrogant pride.

“No.” Morwyn’s tone was firm as she settled herself against the pillows on the bed, her plate piled surprisingly high considering her opinion of the feast. “I’d never go against my principles, simply to survive under the yoke of Rome.”

“And yet you have no compunction in eating their imported food.” He poured the wine and sat beside her, and shot her a sardonic glance as she ate the guinea fowl with apparent relish. Would she enjoy the Roman wine as much? He hadn’t thought to ask if she’d prefer the locally brewed ale.

She wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “Nothing else is available.” Then her brow creased as if she realized she’d just inadvertently agreed with him. “This is different. It’s not what I meant at all.”

“It’s still a compromise.” He shoveled in a mouthful of vegetables so she wouldn’t see the grin threatening to crack his lips. He didn’t know why he found contradicting her enjoyable. Gods, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d enjoyed a conversation to this degree.

Except he could.
More than six years ago
. For a moment the memories seared through his brain, recollections of laughter and love and careless words that could be uttered without first analyzing their possible intent.

And tonight, with Morwyn, he once again spoke without thought of how his words might be interpreted. With a woman who believed him her worst enemy, a woman who would betray him given the slightest opportunity.

“I don’t agree.” There was an edge in her voice, as if she didn’t appreciate having her remarks twisted. “In fact, what could be better than nourishing myself on the enemy’s food in order to—” She snapped her jaw together as if she belatedly recalled to whom she was speaking, before once again biting into the enemy’s food.

“Stab him in the back?” It was ironically amusing they both believed in that. Because that was exactly the plan he’d been following for the last three years.

She swallowed the guinea fowl and looked as if she were about to choke, but after a moment she composed herself. “Not literally.” She didn’t meet his eyes. This conversation might be stimulating but it also served as a reminder. He couldn’t trust her. No matter how he wished otherwise.

“What, then?”

An oddly vulnerable look flashed across her face, as if she were recalling painful memories. Of whom did she think? Her lover? Had he died at the hands of the enemy? Was that the reason Morwyn was so vocal in her condemnation?

If so, they had another bond in common. Another he could never share with her.

“I’d never betray my people.” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper, as if once again she forgot whom she was talking to. As if the words came from her soul, and weren’t uttered with the primary objective of insulting his honor. “Not for the enemy. And not for the gods.”

The gods? That, he hadn’t expected. Under what circumstances did she imagine their gods would want them to betray their people?

He might not think that much of the gods anymore. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d worshipped them or offered them sacrifice. But no matter how he despised them for ignoring his agonized entreaties so many years ago, deep in his heart he knew they’d never willingly submit to the Roman invaders.

Slowly she turned to look at him, her dark eyes unfocused as if she were no longer in this room with him, but reliving her past. Silently he offered her a goblet and she blinked, as if emerging from a trance, and took the wine without protest.

She gulped down the golden liquid as if it were water, despite the way her nose crinkled as if the taste didn’t best please her. But he wasn’t about to risk drinking the water provided by the innkeeper. Even now, he preferred to fill his waterskins from the source, where it gushed unpolluted from the earth.

Silence stretched between them, yet it wasn’t a silence of animosity nor did it crackle with resentment or fear. If circumstances were different, he’d think it companionable.

Her head dropped against his shoulder and need blazed through his groin, igniting the embers, reawakening his lust. He looked down at her, expecting a sultry smile or at least eyes reflecting the extent of their mutual desire.

Only the top of her head was visible as she slumped against him, and he snatched her goblet before it tumbled from her slack fingers.

She’d fallen asleep. It had nothing to do with how much she trusted him, because he knew she didn’t trust him at all, and yet still an odd pain split through his chest at how vulnerable sleep had rendered her.

Without shifting the arm upon which Morwyn rested, he piled their plates and goblets onto the timber chest. He was sweaty and filthy from their ride and now, while she slept, was the perfect moment to visit the bathhouse.

Stealthily he slid from her unconscious embrace and lowered her head to the pillows. She curled into a ball, hair spread around her like black flame, oblivious to how the damp cloth barely covered her enticing breasts or luscious buttocks.

It would be so easy to leave her as she was. But if she awoke, she’d take instant advantage to escape. And it wasn’t safe outside for a woman alone, no matter how skilled with a dagger she might be.

But even as the thought slithered through his mind, even as he made sure she’d be unable to leave him without his consent, the harsh truth bubbled like acid through his lies.

He didn’t want her to disappear in the night because her quick tongue and tempting body relieved the stark reality of his existence.

From the depths of slumber, Morwyn stirred. Various points of her body throbbed and disjointed memories tumbled through her mind.

She was with the Gaul. She didn’t recall falling asleep and stealthily peered through her lashes but he wasn’t lying by her side. Surely it wasn’t morn already and he’d risen?

Before irritation could flood her at the possibility he’d slept by her side
all night
without touching her, she realized the light was all wrong. The lamps were still burning. The remains of their meal still cluttered the top of the chest.

Perhaps he’d merely gone to the bathhouse.

Heat flickered low in her womb and a smile tugged at her lips. Gaining his trust had been easier than she’d thought. If she wasn’t so desperate to see Carys, there would be nothing to stop her from escaping her captor while he luxuriated in his Roman masters’ bath.

But even though she had no intention of escaping, she most certainly needed her medicine bag. It had been many moons since she’d bothered with the contraceptive teas. Not since the Druids had fled Cymru and Carys had chosen her Roman lover above her people. There had been no need. From that night she’d no longer welcomed Gawain into her arms and there had been no other man since.

The heat speared from her womb, tingled through her already damp pussy. It would be easy enough to persuade the Gaul to procure her hot water. Even if he did now work for the enemy, he was still Celt-born. Would know how a woman needed to protect herself against unwanted pregnancy. But in case he’d been tainted by the foul Roman view of femininity, she’d tell him the infusions were for some other womanly complaint.

She smiled again, well satisfied by her plan, and ignoring the protests of her abused muscles stretched languorously, arms above her head, flexing cramped legs.

Unaccustomed weight dragged the ankle of her uninjured leg and she froze, momentarily stunned into stupidity, unable to comprehend the obvious reason for such constraint.