Tainted

Christina
Phillips

A dangerous love that Rome will
never allow…

Driven by his failure to protect
his king and embittered at losing the woman he loves, Celtic warrior Gawain
despises the lust he feels for the beautiful Roman patrician, Antonia. She is
everything he’s never wanted in a woman, yet she ignites his passion like no
other. Despite the danger of discovery, he embarks on an illicit liaison with
her, determined to uncover the reason for the infinite sorrow that haunts her
eyes.

Newly arrived in Britannia from
Rome, Antonia is inexplicably drawn to the cold, tough Celt whose touch stirs a
desire she long thought dead at the hands of her brutal former husband. With
Gawain, she learns the pleasure of sex and his unexpected tenderness thaws her
frozen heart. But she hides a deadly secret that could be her undoing, and
knows her growing feelings for him can lead nowhere. When a shadow from her
past threatens her future, Antonia is torn between the Empire of her birth and
betraying Gawain, the man she’s grown to love.

Inside Scoop:
This medieval romance dabbles a wee bit
in the paranormal.

A
Romantica®
historical erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

Dedication

For Charlotte, with love.

Acknowledgments

For Amanda Ashby and Sara Hantz, thank you for everything,
fabulous Tiara Girls, and here’s to the next ten years!

A big thank you to Emmanuelle Morgen who came up with the
title of
Tainted
, when this story was only the vaguest outline in my
mind. To my wonderful editors, Krishan Trotman and Vicky Reese, and Syneca and
her team who created the breathtaking cover—thank you all so very much for your
dedication and hard work.

To the lovely Cathryn Hein, who answered my horse related
questions with humor and grace, you’re a star.

And of course, a huge thanks to my wonderful husband and
children. Your patience amazes me!

Author Note

During the first century AD, the languages used in Britain
were Brythonic by the native tribal peoples and Latin by the Roman invaders. I
have used words not in common usage in the English language until the 1500s and
later, on the reasoning these people had words of similar meaning in their own
languages at that time. It was likely the Romans who called the ancient peoples
of Europe and Britain Celts. They would have called themselves by their own
tribal names. For clarity, I have taken the liberty of using the term “Celt” in
reference to the ancient tribal peoples of Cymru as a whole.

Britannia. AD52

Antonia drew aside the silken drape at the window of her
father’s
carpentum
and scanned the flat Britannia countryside as they
traveled along the straight Roman road. It was late spring but the day matched
her mood—cloudy, with a hint of restless despair on the horizon.

“Antonia.” Her father clasped her hand and his smile warmed
her frozen heart. How she longed to make his dreams for her come true. But she
was no longer a young girl with a glorious future ahead. She was a matron, past
her prime. She feared her beloved father might never recover from the
disappointment of his only child’s failure to shine like a star in the Rome of
his imagination.

She returned his smile. For him, she would endure this
visit. For him, she would play the perfect Roman lady despite the fact her
former husband had tossed her from his life with degrading disregard.

“My beautiful child.” Her father sighed, and Antonia knew of
whom he was thinking. “You are so like your mother. I see her face every time I
look at you.”

Her heart squeezed in her breast in reflected sorrow. She
had never known her mother. But even after all these years her father still
loved her. Still missed her. What must it be like to be loved so faithfully?

“I will find a man worthy of you,” he said, and she tried to
ignore the way her stomach churned and chest constricted at the thought of
being given to another man. “The noble blood of your mother runs through your
veins. You deserve nothing less than to take your rightful place in the highest
echelons of Rome. And befriending this tribune’s foreign wife is the perfect
way to achieve our ends.”

If she had her way, she would remain by her father’s side
for the rest of their lives. And she intended to have her way. But there was no
need to distress him with her unconventional plans. Not when they were within
moments of arriving at their hosts’ villa, situated a few miles south of the
town of Camulodunum.

“I confess I’m intrigued to meet this foreigner who appears
to hold such sway over her husband.” The tribune, Tiberius Valerius Maximus,
was a member of one of the most powerful families in the Senate. It was a
mystery to Antonia how he had been allowed to marry a native of a conquered
land.

“There are rumors,” her father leaned toward her in a
conspiratorial manner, even though they were alone in his lavishly decorated
carpentum
.
“She is a barbarian princess from the wilds of Cambria. But don’t let this
concern you. If she takes a liking to you, I know she will look favorably on
finding a suitable match for you.”

Antonia gazed into the anxious eyes of her father and
swallowed the words of denial that threatened to spill free. She would use
every weapon at her disposal to turn him from his dream of seeing her wed once
again. Only as a last resort would she confess the ultimate reason that would
ensure her continued freedom from the shackles of forced matrimony.

Once again, she turned to the window and saw a large white
villa set back from the road. It was grander than anything she had yet seen in
Britannia, but was modest compared to the villa her former husband, Amulius
Cornelius Scipio, had owned.

The land in front of the villa was cultivated but devoid of
ornate statuary. As the
carpentum
slowed she glanced over the
surrounding land and, although some attempt at order had been imposed, in the
main, the estate looked little different from the countryside that surrounded
it.

How strange
.

As she contemplated why a Roman should leave his estate in
such rural disarray, a rider galloped past the window, pulled to a halt and
leaped from the horse. Antonia tilted her head to get a better look and as she
did so, the dismounted rider swung around and glared in her direction.

Their gazes clashed and Antonia’s heart slammed against her
ribs as her fingers clenched around the sill of the open window. His eyes were
dark, and although a strip of leather bound his long, dark blond hair, loose
tendrils whipped across his unsmiling face giving him a wild, savage
appearance.

The
carpentum
drew to a stop but the rider did not
move out of the way despite how close he now was to her. Nor did he incline his
head in a gesture of respect for her rank and Antonia continued to stare at
him, mesmerized by the hostile air he projected her way.

Was he a slave of the tribune? Surely not. Even though he
wore a neck ring, no slave would behave with such lack of deference toward a
Roman. Was he then a trusted servant?

She heard her father say they had arrived, but still she
couldn’t tear her fascinated gaze from the surly Briton. He held the bridle of
his mount, his attention riveted on Antonia, apparently oblivious to the young
stable lad who ran toward him.

Unease crawled along her spine, although she could not think
why. She was in no danger from this Briton.
But why did he continue to stare
at her?

With slow deliberation, the Briton’s lip curled in open
disdain and shock punched through Antonia’s chest at his sheer, unabashed
nerve. Was this the way he treated all visitors to his master’s estate? Or just
her?

Heat flooded her cheeks as she realized how blatantly she
had been staring at him in return. Hastily she averted her eyes, smoothing her
blue woolen
palla
as she rose to follow her father.

She was no longer a girl who might blush and giggle at the
bold stare of an undisciplined man. She was a divorced woman of twenty-five and
had no wish to draw the attention of any man, undisciplined or not.

Slaves unhooked the back door of the
carpentum
and
she took a deep breath, still unaccountably shaken by the look of contempt the
Briton had given her. She’d grown used to the derision heaped upon her head by
Scipio, but what had she ever done to this stranger that he should look at her
so?

And why was she still thinking of him?
He would be
gone now to his tasks. She would never see him again.

Her father stepped to the ground and as she held out her
hand for a slave to assist her, awareness skittered over her skin. Before she
could jerk back in self-preservation, the Briton took her hand, and his grasp
was not light as protocol dictated.

He gripped her fingers as though he possessed the right to touch
her, to hold her, and for one terrifying moment, Antonia had the mortifying
certainty that she would stumble into his arms. Once again, their gazes clashed
and once again, she was unaccountably captivated by the deep brown of his eyes.

And the unmistakable gleam of contempt that he made no
effort to conceal.

By rights, she should pull free, reprimand him for his
insolence. But instead, she remained paralyzed as his calloused fingers burned
her flesh and sparks of fire danced in her blood.

His eyes darkened and the heat from his hand radiated along
her arm, feeding the fire and searing the breath in her lungs.
Blessed Juno,
what was happening to her?
Writhing serpents blazed through her breast and
coiled low in her womb. Liquid heat bloomed between her thighs, the fiery path
a strange blend of pain and pleasure. She had never experienced anything like
it in her life before. Yet instinctively she knew what this was, no matter how
she tried to thrust the knowledge from her.

Lust.

The raw desire the Roman ladies of her acquaintance had
whispered about during feminine gatherings. The graphic confidences shared and
stamina of lovers compared, during the many scented bathing rituals she had
attended.

She had always believed the scandalous tales to be amusing
exaggerations. Yet between one shocked heartbeat and the next, all her
preconceived notions of passion sizzled into ash.

“Come, Antonia.” Her father’s voice penetrated her dazed
contemplation and she wrenched her gaze from the Briton to focus on descending
the two steps to the ground. She wouldn’t let him see how his intensity
affected her. Would not give him the satisfaction of stumbling, even though her
legs shook beneath her gown.

Her father smiled at her, apparently oblivious to the way
the Briton continued to hold her hand.
Why did he still hold her hand?
Without turning to him, although every nerve she possessed screamed that she
should turn to him, Antonia pulled free from his burning touch.

And then she couldn’t help but glance his way.

His dark eyes mocked her, the tilt of his lips confirming
his low opinion of her. She couldn’t imagine why his opinion should matter and
yet she discovered it did. Unnerved, she tilted her head at him in an
unmistakable gesture of dismissal, but she wasn’t surprised when he didn’t back
away or lower his own bold stare.

Her father was speaking, threading her arm through his, and
Antonia dutifully walked by his side as they approached the villa. But his
words flowed over her head, unheeded. Because, fanciful or not, she knew the
Briton was staring at her. She could
feel
the fiery heat of his gaze on
her back and she struggled not to look over her shoulder, just to confirm her
suspicion.

Her flesh tingled where the Briton had clasped her hand and
she battled the urge to flex her fingers. If she did, he would know the reason
why. And it was of the utmost importance that she gave him no clue as to how
deeply his careless touch affected her.

Her husband had stripped her of almost everything she
possessed during their time together, but she retained a shadow of her former
pride. And she had no intention of allowing this uncouth native of a foreign
land to breach the flimsy façade of serenity she’d fought so desperately to
maintain during the last torturous year.

They entered the villa’s atrium where the exquisite mosaic
floor, exotic stonework and beautiful statuary boldly declared the high status
of its master. She forced a smile to her lips as the tribune, in his purple
striped toga, came forward to greet them. How her father coveted that cursed
purple stripe. How mistakenly he imagined there could be no higher honor for
his daughter than to be welcomed within the elevated patrician rank.

How she longed to tell him of the putrid stink that seethed
beneath that lofty veneer of civilized sophistication. And knew she never
would.

The risk was too great.

As the tribune welcomed her father, she looked at the
Roman’s face and shock slammed through her. Why hadn’t her father warned her?
Only years of successfully hiding her true feelings prevented her from gasping
aloud.

Ancient scars distorted the tribune’s face yet they were
like nothing she had seen before. But in spite of the disfigurement, his
haughty patrician beauty was enough to take any woman’s breath away.

How fortunate she was immune to such base stirrings.

And instantly the dark, condemning glare of the Briton
invaded her mind.

“Welcome to our home,” a feminine voice said in perfect
Latin and for the second time in as many moments, Antonia’s senses reeled in
disbelief. The tribune’s wife sounded as though she had lived in the upper
echelons of Roman society her entire life. With her golden hair, slender figure
and dressed in an exquisite silken
stola
, she would not have looked out
of place in the emperor’s entourage.

“Thank you.” Antonia inclined her head in greeting as a
slave took her
palla
. “It is most kind of you to invite me.”

“My wife has been looking forward to making your
acquaintance,” the tribune said, and Antonia watched, fascinated, as he turned
to his wife and bestowed a smile of such love that her heart ached. Never had
she seen a man look at his wife in such a manner. Men of Rome would never allow
such feelings to show, at least not in public. What enchantment had this
foreigner weaved around her husband?

“It’s true,” the foreign princess said as she turned back to
Antonia with a smile that could surely rival Venus herself. “There are very few
young women of Rome here and I am most eager to learn all I can of your city.”

“It would be my honor to enlighten you,” Antonia said, and
she tried not to stare at the princess’s mismatched eyes. She had never
encountered such a phenomenon before, although it was whispered one of the
sacred Vestal Virgins also possessed such an anomaly.

“Come. We will leave the men to their business and take
refreshments in the courtyard.”

Antonia fully expected the Cambrian beauty—no one in their
right mind could call her a barbarian—to take her arm as if they were the
dearest of friends. In Rome all the ladies in her social sphere kissed and hugged
no matter how slight their acquaintance, but regardless of how she looked, this
tribune’s wife obviously knew nothing of such customs.

Was that the kind of thing she wanted Antonia to tell her
about?

“You must call me Carys,” the other woman said as they
entered the large courtyard. An impressive colonnade surrounded the four sides
giving protection from the weather and a central fountain, of Venus rising from
the waves, was an oddly discordant note of formality in the otherwise wild,
undisciplined garden. “And I shall call you Antonia.”

“Of course.” For all that Carys was a native of a conquered
land and younger than Antonia, she was still the wife of an influential
patrician. And Antonia, despite the blood of her mother, was nothing but a
divorced woman, once again under the protection of her father.

There was no question that Antonia would presume to dispute
anything Carys might request.

Unless it involved matrimony.

They sat on a stone bench and slaves brought out an array of
edible delicacies and arranged them on a low stone table.

“I hope you enjoy living in Britain,” Carys said, and it was
a shock to hear her call the province by its barbaric name. “I know we are
going to be such good friends.”