The Conqueror, page 2
Quickly crossing to the entrance, Marcus removed his helmet and set it outside. A signal—no one would dare disturb the centurion. They would think he had taken a village wench. They would wait until their commander was no longer occupied. Then he yanked the skin across the opening, shoving it into a crack to hold it in place, at least partly obscuring them from the outside world.
He returned to the mound of furs Gwen called a bed. The druid lay where Marcus had left him—he had not dared to replace his robe, but he was covering himself as best he could with his hands, a nervous look in his eyes. Marcus hitched his own clothes up again and secured the material by tucking it into a strap of his armor, but apart from that he did not undress. He pushed Gwen’s legs apart and knelt between them, shoving the druid’s hands aside to expose his manhood again. Then he fetched himself some of the grease from the pot and briskly shoved two fingers into Gwen’s resisting hole.
It was tight. Gwen choked and grunted in discomfort, but Marcus did not relent. He shoved grease in as deep as he could, closing his eyes to the fear and pain in those lovely blues. He could not slow down, could not give himself time to think about what he was doing, because this was foolish. He had to kill the druid. Raping him first only wasted time, and Marcus could take any of the Britons back to camp if he wished to sate his needs.
Yet even as he told himself these sensible things, he took a fistful of grease and quickly slicked his erection and positioned himself. Gwen was shaking, and he turned his head away, eyes closing as if to escape the sight and thus the truth of what was about to happen to him.
When Marcus thrust in with relentless power, Gwen threw his head back and cried out in pain, but his eyes remained closed.
He was so, so tight. Marcus grit his teeth, bearing the painful squeeze that still kept him too erect to even dream of withdrawing. He felt a powerful shudder run through the barbarian’s lean frame and into him through the places they touched, the places they were connected.
With his clean hand, Marcus touched Gwen’s face…grasped a handful of hair again…pulled, but gently. Tugged insistently, sinking down on top of the man. As before, Gwen did not fight the rough kiss. He cried out again into Marcus’ mouth with the first thrust. Then again. And again. He was squeezing his eyes shut, clamping back tears, but his lovely voice was filled with pain, over and over. It stung something in Marcus’ chest each time he drove in.
Yet he didn’t stop.
Once inside this man, all his self-control as a soldier simply unraveled. The druid, Gwen, was unlike any companion he had ever bedded. The rough coupling in this crude, dirty place should have diminished the pleasure, but with every thrust, Marcus only felt more overwhelming desire. He could not tear his eyes from the man’s sweet face, contorted with agony…and shades of bliss haunting the edges of his sea-blue eyes. He could not bear the sounds Gwen made, the cries wrenched from him, the thin sounds between…and the occasional moan that made his throat tight and his heart race in his chest.
Marcus watched, and at times he kissed a gasping mouth, but he never stopped thrusting. Sweat soaked his tunic—and Gwen was the same. The powder-writing on his skin grew wet and smeared until the runes could barely be distinguished. His long, golden hair darkened with sweat and clung to skin, plastered to red streaks. And tears—just a few—slipped free and made tracks over his face, pooling in his ears. Heart thumping in time to the pounding down below, Marcus leaned even closer. Touched his lips to the tracks. Slipped his tongue into Gwen’s ear and tasted his salt tears.
“Mine…Gwen…” It was a breathless moan, almost a whisper. It was aching, blissful, rough.
Blue eyes looked up at him, so close. Marcus thought he would drown in them. The man looked…tired. Exhausted. And through the weakness, there was pleading again. How long have we been coupling? Marcus…didn’t know. His body was in control, relentlessly claiming the man beneath him, insatiable for the pleasure of being inside him. It wasn’t tight anymore, and the cries of pain had faded to occasional grunts of discomfort. Gwen was beginning to writhe a little—he could barely move, pinned as he was by Marcus’ larger body, but Marcus could feel the squirming, the hitching breath, the tremors.
He claimed Gwen’s mouth again, deep and passionate—the druid’s coarse beard tickled his smooth face—and he took hold of Gwen’s dripping manhood and jerked him quickly.
Cries again, immediately—muffled by their joined mouths, but still loud. Not so pained anymore. Cries of pleasure…and then strained sounds of climax as Gwen’s manhood spurted his seed into Marcus’ hand.
Marcus must have been closer than he realized. Gwen finished, collapsing—utterly spent. But Marcus picked up speed for a final minute, instinct driving him toward the goal. The slapping sounds of skin released something wild and primal within him until he thought only of staking his claim on this man. He wrapped his arms around Gwen’s limp, soaked body and rutted him like an animal…and then he spilled, groaning in ecstasy as he felt his seed entering Gwen’s body. He thought perhaps there was a light touch on the side of his face. A whisper of his name, heavily accented. But he wasn’t sure. His face was buried against sweaty skin, and the bliss, the heat, and the scent of Gwen’s body filled him.
Arms shaking and barely holding him up, Marcus withdrew. Beneath him, the druid lay still, breathing hard—as Marcus was. Gwen was a mess—yet Marcus could not take his eyes from the sight of him. He felt…a strange joy in the sight. Not like any wench he had ever bedded, nor even his wife. They had provoked feelings of pride, of satisfaction—sometimes renewed lust. For this man, he felt…simple joy. He is…quite lovely.
Weakly, Gwen raised a red-streaked hand, touched Marcus’ hand near his head on the furs, and tugged, bringing it close. Marcus shivered as lips brushed the inside of his wrist, and when Gwen’s eyes looked up at him, tired and tender, he felt the joy rise into a powerful need—a feeling that shamed the most desperate lust he had ever known.
Leaning down, he claimed Gwen’s mouth again—this time with a soft sweetness he had never used. Yet the need burned under the softness, giving the kiss an urgency that felt unfamiliar after coupling—yet wonderful.
“Centurion!”
They both froze at the voice from outside the hut. Marcus hunched over his druid, looking back over his shoulder at the door, teeth barred in a silent snarl. He saw no one beyond the opening, but the voice had been close. “What!” he snapped.
“Sir, we have a problem with the villagers that…”
“Wait. I’m coming,” he sharply interrupted.
His body felt like lead, but Marcus peeled himself off of Gwen. Yanking down his skirt, he walked out, stopping just beyond the doorway. As he thought, a solder was standing by the wall.
“Your pardon, sir, it sounded as though you were finished, and the scholar says there is some difficulty…” The solder indicated one of the scholars, who stepped forward, thinly concealed annoyance on his face. Marcus ignored the look.
“What is it?” he grunted.
The scholar’s expression twitched a little, and he began to surreptitiously breathe through his mouth. “The villagers will not hear instruction, centurion. The soldiers have already killed a few as examples, but the village will not take warning. They keep blathering about some sacred fire ritual and the druids…”
“Well, tell them there will be no ritual. Tell them their druid is dead. I’ll have this hut burning in a moment. Tell them if they wish, they can all be burned in their huts, just like their druid. That should make a good fire ritual for these pagans.”
“Yes sir,” the soldier agreed, moving to escort the scholar back to the others.
“A moment.” They stopped, and Marcus cursed himself for his impulse before plunging ahead. Speaking to the scholar, he asked, “How would you tell one of these barbarians to bring his valuables with him? In his tongue?” The scholar frowned, but provided a string of awkward sounds. Marcus grimaced. “Is there a simpler way to say it?”
“I suppose…” Then the scholar offered what must have been only two words. Marcus repeated them, fumbling the sounds. “Do you wish me to tell the villagers to gather their valuables, centurion? They do not seem to have any…”
“No,” he interrupted. “No. Carry on. Dismissed.”
The solder saluted, but the scholar gave him a skeptical look before departing. Marcus turned and reentered the hut.
Gwen had covered himself with his robe and was trying, weakly, to reach his feet. With two brisk paces, Marcus reached him, grasped his arms, and helped him up as gently as he could. Surprised blue eyes blinked up at him, but the man didn’t cower or flinch.
Marcus’ chest tightened, and he frowned. There was no time for more of this. Hesitating over the syllables, he repeated what the scholar had told him. Gwen gave him a baffled look.
Frustrated, Marcus pointed to the fire pit. “Fire.” Then he pointed all around at the hut. “Fire burn down.” He pointed at Gwen. “Gwen…” and he repeated the words he hoped meant bring valuables. Then he took the man’s hand and pulled him close. “Gwen…come with me.” He pointed away from the village, back toward the Roman camp. “Gwen…with Marcus. Come. Bring valuables.”
Frowning, Gwen repeated the words of his language, much more fluidly, with his voice rising in a question. Marcus nodded sharply. Then, “Gwynllyw…Mahrkhus…” A hand against his breastplate, a hand against the druid’s chest—lifted, and brought together between them. Clasped. Then pointing away, both hands together. Raised eyebrows.
Marcus nodded again. “Yes. We’re leaving together. I’m taking you with me.” Then he pulled Gwen close and kissed him.
When he pulled back, he could see understanding in those beautiful eyes—and acceptance. Not joy—not the sharp, giddy joy Marcus was feeling, the boyish elation that made him do something so utterly foolish as take a druid back to camp with him. No…he wished Gwen would feel the same, but he would take acceptance for now. Later. Later, he would make Gwen happy that he had agreed to this.
With a nod, the druid moved away. He looked around the hut, a long, lingering gaze, as if lost. He took a few short steps away from Marcus—limping heavily, back bent and legs unsteady. Finally, he picked up a round stone amulet on a long leather thong. It was engraved with more of those pagan runes—and it was an extremely bad idea to let the druid keep such a thing. But Marcus did not interfere as Gwen hung the amulet around his neck, hiding it under the robe. Then Gwen took up a few short sticks, cut with markings, and slipped them into a fold of his robe, followed by a little sachet. With that, he turned and faced Marcus. “Gwynllyw, Mahrkhus,” and he pointed away.
Nodding, Marcus led the druid out of his home. Gwen struggled to match the pace, face twisted in pain with each step.
He picked up his helmet and put it back on, then turned to Gwen and, with a muttered apology, took his wrists and bound them, pulling the hood of his robe up over his head. Gwen did not resist, simply stood there as Marcus returned to the hut, grabbing a branch from the fire and holding it up to the thatch roof. He made sure the hut was blazing, then returned to his quiet captive.
Tears had left their tracks down Gwen’s face, but even as Marcus looked at him, the grief suddenly vanished. A light of realization cleared the sorrow from his face, and that melted into a peaceful expression. Marcus studied the druid with a frown as Gwen watched his home burn, eyes a little sorrowful, but peace and acceptance overruling the rest.
When those blue eyes turned to him again, there was a new curiosity in them—perhaps even a cautious…trust?
Marcus ached to kiss him, but they were in sight of others, now. Distant, but the gesture would be seen. He could not be tender, now. It was fine for the centurion to take a barbarian captive for his personal use, but tenderness and kisses would be unthinkable. Instead, Marcus winced in regret, mumbled an apology, and pulled Gwen’s hood so low that it hid his face. Then he grabbed his bound hands and dragged him over to his horse and tied him to the saddle by a lead rope. Gwen would have to follow on foot, like hobbled livestock.
Chapter 2
The field camp was half a day’s journey. A guard of Roman soldiers remained in the village with the scholars to keep the people subjugated. Marcus and most of the fighting force returned to field camp for a few days, preparing to travel back to the occupied city, their mission complete.
Gwen was bound to a stake in the earth within Marcus’ tent. He had come willingly enough, of course, but Marcus could not quell his fear that the druid would flee, given the opportunity. What was more, he simply could not let anyone see him leaving a prisoner unbound. And his subordinates were in and out of his tent constantly as orders were given and the return trip planned. He kept Gwen out of the way, bound and thoroughly concealed, and no one so much as looked at the barbarian their commander had decided to keep.
Only when the night grew deep and Marcus sent his last subordinates away until morning did he dare attend to his captive.
Gwen raised his head at Marcus’ approach—he had remained bowed and hunched over the stake since he’d been brought in. With a cautious touch, Marcus drew back the hood. He could see at once that Gwen had suffered—a thing he could not have prevented, but he regretted it. Gwen’s face was pale and drawn, pain haunted the edges of his eyes. Marcus examined him gently, and quickly discovered that his feet were raw and bleeding. He cursed. He should have thought of that and found some shoes for the man to wear before such a long walk.
I can make amends.
He brought Gwen food and water—the best he had at hand, from his own supper. The druid accepted and ate, and Marcus washed his dirty, bloody feet and wrapped them in clean bindings. He wished to give Gwen something finer to wear, but he had nothing that would conceal him—it would have to wait until they reached the city.
With another washbasin, he cleaned away the streaks of red markings and sweat. Then, hesitating, he handed Gwen the cloth. Confused eyes looked at him, until Marcus reached out and gently touched Gwen’s hip, sliding his hand back just enough to make his point. Then he rose and went over to his bed roll, giving Gwen privacy to clean himself.
Before he went to sleep, he gave the druid his only extra blanket for a bed. Then he lay and stared at the side of the tent for a long time, wondering what madness he was engaged in, and what further foolish risks he would take now that he had begun.
~•~
For the longer journey back to the city, Marcus’ cloaked and bound prisoner rode horseback, his mount tied behind Marcus’ steed. It was a little unusual that he kept Gwen so near, rather than with the other prisoners, but Marcus preferred to raise a few curious eyebrows than to risk anyone discovering that his “wench” was actually a living druid.
There was much to do when they reached the city; Marcus was forced to send Gwen to his house with a servant while he reported on the campaign. The time that Gwen was not in his sight seemed endless.
As part of his report to the senior centurion, he had to give an account of spoils—and he reported that he had taken a man from the last village for his personal use. The centurion didn’t even blink, merely asked if Marcus was planning to keep him—his value as a slave would be deducted from Marcus’ salary. He answered that he would keep him, and accepted the reduced pay. Then he returned to his house as quickly as possible.
It was a drab stone thing, likely taken from some poor Briton who perished in the attack. He had two rooms, one opening to the muddy street, and one in back with a bed. This luxury was his right due to rank alone. Most other soldiers did not have private houses of their own.
Marcus found Gwen bound to the leg-post of the bed in the back room; the servant had left him there before returning to his home, as Marcus had given him leave to do. “Gwen,” he sighed, approaching quickly and immediately kneeling to untie the druid.
Blue eyes regarded him with a faint smile from under the hood. “Gwynllyw.”
Marcus smiled helplessly at the reprimand and pushed the hood back. “G-Gwen…chlee…yoo?”
A broader smile, as Gwen shook his head. “Mahrkhus.” It sounded like a gentle taunt, for Gwen could at least attempt Marcus’ name in whole.
“Well, mine is easier,” Marcus mumbled, then gave up and lifted the man to his feet. Still holding his hands, he stared into those fathomless sea-blue eyes. Apologetically, he asked, “Gw…Gwen?”
The man sighed and nodded, smiling. “Gwehn.”
He brushed hair back with his fingers, tucking it behind the man’s ear as he murmured the name—“Gwen.”
In that moment, it was almost impossible to hold himself back—all Marcus wanted was to kiss this man’s sweet mouth and take him to his bed and have him again. The days since they had coupled had been endless, the nights agonizing. Yet the time had also given him place to think.
That first encounter, Gwen had tried to ask him to stop. He had not truly resisted, and some part of him must have wanted Marcus, too—a man did not grow aroused simply from a kiss if he did not want more than that. Still, whatever sliver of desire he may have felt and whatever pleasure he may have had in the end, he wanted Marcus to stop. For that alone, Marcus had to accept that he had raped Gwen.
Such a petty thing it seemed—Roman soldiers barely remembered the distinction. Conquered barbarians were a long way from Roman citizens, their rights nonexistent. Still, the way Marcus felt when he looked at Gwen, when he looked into those precious, brave eyes—he did not want to merely use the man against his will. He knew they could not even speak to each other, yet Marcus wanted more. He wanted their desires to be mutual, for Gwen to come to him—perhaps even to care for him, as Marcus already cared for his captive. He would not have risked his life by harboring a heathen druid otherwise.
Now he had been thinking, and now he had a plan. And whatever his lusts were, he would not simply take this man again, even if he put up no resistance. He wanted to wait until Gwen sought him out—but first, he felt that, just once, he needed to show Gwen that he could offer him more than a quick, dirty, painful rutting.
