Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 01] (33 page)

The thought was treason. She knew that. But still the resentment festered.

Maximus ushered Carys into the timber-built tavern where Faustus had accommodated his mistress. Gods, this task galled him, but he had promised, and the abandoned girl had certainly earned the gold coins Faustus had been magnanimous enough to leave her.

The tavern keeper directed him to the room where Efa stayed, and then cast a speculative look over Carys and Branwen. Maximus shot him a deadly glower, which the Celtic bastard chose to ignore. Had he really once contemplated installing Carys in such an establishment?

“Do you wish refreshments to be brought through?” And again his gaze slid over Carys.

Filthy dog. He reined in his temper, knowing Carys wouldn’t thank him if he smashed her countryman’s teeth down his throat, no matter how much his insolence deserved it.

“We won’t be staying.” He maintained eye contact until the other dropped his gaze and shuffled away.

“Did she love him?” Carys’s whisper was so low he strained to hear.

He stared at her, appalled. “I hope not.” If Efa loved Faustus, the possibility of her dissolving into hysterics magnified alarmingly.

Carys exhaled. “Maximus. She can’t know we’re together. You simply requested my presence, as I am a Celt and you need—a translator.”

Her insistence on keeping their relationship a secret was beginning to piss him off. “And suppose I refuse to pander to your whims?”

“Then I shall remain here, and you can face the woman by yourself.”

She had an answer for everything. He should, by rights, assert his authority and show her who her master was, but unaccountably a perverse portion of his mind enjoyed the way she stood up to him.

“It would take no effort whatsoever,” he said softly, “to ensure you entered the room with me.”

Instead of trembling with fear, as any other woman might, she smiled sweetly. “If you consider me your slave, Maximus, then perhaps that is exactly what you should do.”

He had never considered her his slave. Had never wanted her as his slave. And with a slither of disbelief he realized she had once again got her way.

He rapped sharply on the door. “Efa knows I speak your barbaric tongue. Your translator idea won’t work.”

Carys’s breath hissed between her teeth. “Then you brought me along for propriety’s sake.”

Before he could respond to that, the door opened and Efa blinked up at him, in obvious confusion. Her black hair coiled over her shoulder in a long braid and her face looked unnaturally pale.

“My lord.” She hovered uncertainly, her eyes apprehensive. Then she noticed Carys, and her entire face stretched with horrified disbelief.

He tensed. Over the last few months several officers had taken mistresses. To his knowledge, the women hadn’t been unduly harassed by the Celts as they began to understand the advantages that embracing Rome and all she could offer entailed.

While he’d pandered to Carys’s desire for concealment, deep down he’d thought she was overreacting. But the way Efa gaped at her, the way he could feel the girl’s shocked antagonism rolling from her, splintered his previously held convictions.

And this reaction came from the ex-mistress of a Roman Tribune, a young woman who had willingly fucked Faustus and accompanied him whenever he had wished it. It was hypocritical and unbelievable, but if Efa directed such venom toward Carys, then how in Tartarus would the general populace respond toward her?

Carys stepped into the room as if it were her right, and, feeling entirely out of place, Maximus followed her, Branwen taking up the rear.

“I regret meeting you this way, Efa, while in such company.”

It was odd hearing Carys speak the Celtic language when he was so used to her fluent Latin. He flicked his glance toward Efa to see how she took the slight against him, but she didn’t look appeased.

“The Roman accosted me while I communed with Cerridwen.”

He shot Carys a dark glare. It was all very well attempting to soothe the dark-haired Celt’s feelings, but
accosted
? That was harsh.

Efa’s hostility wavered. “You aren’t with him?” Her voice was low, as if she didn’t wish him to hear, so he kept his expression blank and glanced with feigned interest around the Roman-furnished room.

“I came here to see you.”

It was uncanny how she didn’t lie, and yet also managed not to tell the truth. An unsavory notion whispered through his mind. Had Carys used this tactic on him, without him realizing?

“Forgive me, my lady.” Efa bowed her head. “I know you would never—I—Forgive me. I’m not myself this morn.”

His interest sharpened. Efa’s demeanor was suddenly servile. And although he knew Carys was no peasant, that her family was of the chieftain class that in Roman society would equate to the nobility, there was something else going on here.

Something he couldn’t see. But, unaccountably, he could feel it, humming in the air, sparking along his senses.

An eerie shudder inched along his spine.

“The Tribune has a message for you.” Carys turned to him, and he saw the disapproval glinting in her eyes.

He cleared his throat, mentally cursing her. Did she think he was enjoying this excruciating encounter?

Efa also turned toward him, but fear tinged her face. “Is my lord Faustus well?”

“He is quite well.” Maximus’s voice was gruff, and he frowned at her, as he imagined stringing Faustus up for putting him in such an awkward position. “He is on his way back to Rome.”

“Rome?” Efa pressed a hand against her breast. Gods, he hoped she wasn’t going to faint. Thank Minerva he’d thought to bring Carys along.

He pulled the pouch of gold coins from his belt. “He wanted you to have this.”

Efa stared at him uncomprehendingly. Maximus swallowed and proffered the pouch a little closer. “As a token of his regard.”

Carys made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, and he favored her with a quelling glare that, naturally, she ignored.

“Faustus has left me?”

Sweat prickled across his brow. What had possessed him to agree to Faustus’s outrageous request?

“Yes.”

To his vague horror, Efa swayed as if she were about to collapse. Carys gripped her hands, steadying her, but as she did so an incomprehensible blend of emotions washed over her face: elation, relief—followed instantly by iron purpose.

“Sit down.” Carys’s tone brooked no argument, not that Efa looked capable of disagreement. Maximus watched Carys settle the younger woman on a chair, still holding her hands. “It’ll be all right, Efa. You have no need to fear.”

She would have no money problems either, if the wretched woman would take the gold. He dropped the pouch onto a side table and flexed his fingers. He hoped Carys wouldn’t take too long to calm Efa. He needed to resume his tribunal duties, but before then he wanted to ensure Carys was safely back in his quarters.

“He didn’t say he was leaving.” Efa sounded on the point of tears. Maximus shifted uncomfortably.

“Forget the Roman.” Carys sounded as if she meant it. He looked at her.
Did
she mean it? Somehow he’d imagined she would be more sympathetic to Efa’s distress. But then, what did he know of women’s distress in these matters?

Efa gave a sob. Carys crouched before her. Maximus stared in growing confusion. What was going on?

“Efa.” Carys’s voice had softened. “You must put the Roman behind you. You’ve the future to think of. You must be strong, for the sake of your babe.”

Maximus stared at her, and as the weight of her words thudded into his brain, he dragged his gaze to Efa. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t responded, simply sat on her chair with a vacant expression on her face.

He dropped his gaze to her flat belly. Fuck. She was pregnant? How could Carys know? By the look of it, even Efa didn’t know. She certainly wasn’t showing.

Branwen moved to Efa’s other side and patted her shoulder, as if offering comfort. Maximus had the overpowering urge to march from the room and leave the women to it, but he was a Tribune, and he couldn’t leave before this situation had been satisfactorily resolved.

He cleared his throat. “Are you with child, Efa?”

Efa shivered. “If my lady says so.”

He’d already concluded Carys was a healer. She obviously had more skill than he had given her credit for. Although how she had discovered such a thing about Efa without an examination was beyond his comprehension.

Perhaps it was another mystical Celtic way Rome had yet to master.

“We won’t speak of it now,” Carys said gently. “But I’ll see you later today, or tomorrow, and we can discuss what you wish to do.”

Her words washed over him as he focused on her profile, and stark realization dawned. For all he knew, Carys also could be pregnant.
With his child.

Heat flared through him. The possibility had never occurred to him before this moment. The first time he’d taken her, he’d assumed—in a distant, unimportant corner of his mind—she had taken feminine precautions to ensure against such catastrophe.

He’d known she was no whore, but she was a Celt and their ways were different, their women less constrained than those of noble Roman birth.

But Carys had known only one other man besides him. And been celibate for the last three years.

Yet she was a healer. Doubtless she knew of such things
. But suppose she did not?

“I don’t know what to do.” Efa pressed a hand against her belly. “How can I have Faustus’s babe if he’s not here to protect me?”

“Will your kin take you back?”

Efa flicked Carys a despairing look. “Not with a bastard to feed.”

Shit. His muscles were so knotted they pained him, and he desired nothing better than to vanish from the room. He was an interloper, eavesdropping on intimate female conversation, and the experience was torturous.

Carys stood, extricated her hands from Efa’s and collected the pouch he’d left on the table. “Here.” She placed the pouch between Efa’s listless fingers. “This is yours. And remember. There’s no need to burden yourself with a reminder of Rome if you don’t wish it.”

He definitely shouldn’t be listening to this conversation.
But he was rooted to the spot, unable to move. Unable to take his eyes from Carys. She no longer reminded him of a well-bred Roman lady. She was a Celt, a foreigner, a woman who knew things he could scarcely comprehend, a woman whose every word this peasant girl not only believed, but respected.

Efa shuddered and her fingers clasped the pouch. “My lady, I do want the babe. It’s the only thing I’ll have of Faustus to love.”

Carys nodded and stroked a gentle hand along the girl’s arm. “Then I shall find alternative arrangements for you, Efa. I’ll make a sacrifice to sweet Cerridwen and beg her favor.”

Efa gripped Carys’s hand and kissed it reverently. Ragged claws crawled along Maximus’s spine at the gesture, which hovered perilously close to worship.

Women’s concerns
. The words thundered through his brain, obliterating the strands of doubt. He had never witnessed anything like this before, and by Jupiter he never wanted to again. Efa was frightened and Carys offered comfort. Of course the peasant girl was grateful. Of course she would show her gratitude in such a way.

He was seeing shadows where there were none.

“If my lady has no objection,.” Branwen sounded hesitant, as if unsure of Carys’s reaction. “Efa could stay with me. There’s only my grandfather at home.”

A look of wonder flashed across Carys’s face, as if Branwen had just uttered something extraordinary. “A babe,” she whispered, and the hairs on his arms shivered at her tone. “Efa, what do you think of this arrangement?”

“I suppose.” She didn’t sound entirely convinced, but Carys didn’t appear to notice as she reached out and took Branwen’s hand.

“The babe will strengthen your grandfather’s heart, restore his will to live. Truly, Cerridwen moves in the most mysterious of ways.” And she smiled radiantly, as if all the ills in the world had suddenly been cured.

“Carys.” His voice was harsh, an unwelcome intrusion, but he couldn’t stand any more of this womanly talk or adoration of the barbarous Cerridwen. “We have to leave.”

“Yes, of course.” Carys agreed so quickly he was unnerved. He’d expected her to argue, to say she couldn’t possibly leave Efa alone in such a state, or that she needed to make arrangements for the girl’s relocation.

He didn’t trust her swift acquiescence.

“Branwen, you’ll stay here with Efa to ensure she has everything she needs.” Carys spoke with quiet authority, as if she had every right to issue orders to Branwen. To the girl
he
had acquired to be her own personal maid. “I want Efa out of here and installed in your home as swiftly as possible.”

“Yes, my lady.” Branwen seemed just as eager.