Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Glossary of Major Gods and Goddesses

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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  PRINTING HISTORY

  Heat trade paperback edition / February 2011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Phillips, Christina, (date)

  Captive / Christina Phillips.—Heat trade paperback ed. p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47850-9

  1. Druids and Druidism—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.H45455C37 2011

  813’.6—dc22

  2010036295

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Mark, Victoria, Charlotte and Oliver. Believe in your dreams.

  Acknowledgments

  Huge thanks once again to my awesome critique partners Sara Hantz and Amanda Ashby—aka, for some obscure reason, the Tiara Mafia—for cracking the whip and dangling chocolate at appropriate moments. Between you and my faithful Chap Stick, I made it through.

  To my wonderful agent, Emmanuelle Morgen, who wanted to know Morwyn’s story and encouraged me every step of the way—thank you! I’m thrilled you love Bren as much as I do.

  Thank you to my amazing editor, Kate Seaver, for your advice and the brainstorming sessions, to Katherine Pelz for all your help, and to Elizabeth Tobin and the Berkley marketing team for all your support.

  To the incredible Tony Mauro and the Berkley art department, thank you all so very much for creating such a fabulous cover!

  To Nige Redwood, Cath Baughen and Peggy Phillips—thank you for always being there when I needed you.

  And to Mark, Victoria, Charlotte and Oliver—thanks for all the late-night takeaways and lattes!

  Preface

  In AD 50, seven years after invading Britain, the Romans advance into Cymru, the western peninsula, to mine her rich mineral deposits of gold, copper and lead.

  The local tribes do not take kindly to this invasion.

  Led by their priestly class, the Druids, the people of Cymru rebel against the might of the Eagle.

  The Roman Emperor, Claudius, perceives Druids as a dangerous menace to the expansion of the Empire.

  Resistance will not be tolerated.

  He orders their extermination.

  The Druids flee to their sacred Isle of Mon to gather their strength to fight anew. But in the summer of AD 51, Morwyn, a Druid priestess, leaves the Isle to join the rebels in Cymru.

  Bren, a Gaul auxiliary stationed in Cymru, has spent the last three years undercover in the Roman Legions. His loyalty to his Briton king is absolute. But his time is running out . . .

  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 was 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 d
eath 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 irrevocably 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 r
isen 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 to 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 lying 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.”