Guest blog: Christina Philips 'Betrayed'

In 51 A.D., Druid priestess Nimue is injured and enslaved by the hated Roman Legions. Even though she is drawn to her captor, she’s determined to escape and complete her mission for the Briton king and her duty to Arianrhod, the goddess she is bound to.

The tough Roman warrior who captures her is far from the brutal barbarian she expects. His touch inflames her desires and passion burns between them. Though Nimue does not accept her enslavement, her heart surrenders to her enemy. When Arianrhod appears to her in the form of an owl, Nimue knows the union is blessed.

Roman warrior Tacitus is enchanted by the fiery beauty who shows no fear and challenges him at every turn. Though enslaving her goes against his heart, he’s determined to make her his. No woman has ever heated his blood as she does. But when he discovers her true nature as one who actually communes with the gods, his loyalties are torn between his heritage and a woman who could destroy everything he’s ever believed in.

A Romantica® fantasy erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

Excerpt ~ from Chapter One (edited for PG rating)

An eerie chill trickled along Nimue’s spine, causing the hair to rise on the back of her neck and arms. Without thinking she leaped to her feet, dagger once again in her hand. But it wasn’t a lone legionary who had caught her so unawares. It was a mounted Roman officer, in a flowing scarlet cloak, with his shield in one hand and sword in the other.

For a moment all she could feel was the erratic thud of her heart in her ears, the uneven gasp of her breath in her throat. The sun dazzled her, glinting off the polished metal of his armor as he stared down at her, and obscurely she noted his impressive biceps, his muscles flexing as he urged his horse forward.

Flee. The command whispered in her mind, faint and insubstantial. But the treacherous rocks on her right, the fast flowing stream at her back and the steep bank on the far side did not offer her a speedy escape. But somehow she had to lead him farther away from the queen and princess. Except he had effectively trapped her by the edge of the stream.

Yet even as the weight of her responsibility tormented her conscience, she couldn’t drag her fascinated gaze from the Roman. His face was hard, autocratic, unsmiling. The face of countless Romans, and yet like none she had ever seen before. His eyes were narrowed, his strong jaw shadowed. And the tip of his sword was a mere arm’s length from her face.     

“Surrender to the might of the Eagle,” he said in the ancient Celtic language of her people. His voice was deep, sensuous, and dark embers stirred between her thighs, as if she faced a brave warrior of Cymru instead of a cowardly barbarian of Rome. “And you shall remain unharmed.”

Her palm was sweaty around her dagger and she tightened her grip before it slipped from her grasp. She might not have a chance against this Roman but she would never surrender to him. And she would never willingly give up her weapons, either.

“I would sooner die fighting you,” she said in Latin, just to show him she was no ignorant native of a fractured land. Her mother had taught her the language well. “Than surrender my freedom to your filthy Emperor.”

She had no freedom under Rome. As soon as they discovered she was a Druid, her life would be forfeit. Crucifixion was terrifying enough, but it was the torture she would doubtless endure beforehand that shriveled her soul.

His black stallion whickered, pawed the ground, but the Roman did not break eye contact nor did his sword waver.

“Brave words, little Celt.” Still he spoke in her language, and disbelief unfurled through her breast at the tone of his voice. Did he find her challenge amusing? “But I don’t fight women.”

She ignored the threat of his sword and stepped forward, her dagger on clear display. He had no right to enter her land and then mock her prowess as a warrior. Just because she did not possess the brute strength of a full-grown male didn’t mean she lacked dexterity or speed. She glared up at him, wishing, obscurely, she could see the color of his eyes.

“Why? Are you afraid I may unman you?” Why was she trying to raise his ire? Wouldn’t it make more sense to beg for freedom? Pretend to be a mere peasant, caught up in this revolt? Perhaps, then, he would allow her to escape without persecution?

Even as the thought teased her mind she knew the silver bracelets on her wrists, the torque at her throat and jewels in her ears plainly branded her as anything but a peasant.

For one brief moment the corner of his lips quirked, as if he found her not only amusing but highly entertaining.

“I believe,” his voice was a seductive caress along the naked flesh of her arms, the exposed swell of her breasts. “I am more than man enough for you, Celt.”

Read Chapter One of Betrayed

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Peter Alan Orchard: 'Hoard' - short story

Ahead of publication of my first book, a whodunit set in ancient Greece, I've been writing a few short stories and sticking them on my blog alongside other bits and pieces. This was the first one to appear - it's set towards the end of the Roman occupation of Britain, and Lindsay kindly suggested that I guest blog here with it during short story/novella week because there's a thread of romance entwined in it.

Hoard

His leggings caked with dust and burrs from the ploughed field, his tunic stinking of pigs from the sty behind the house, Messicus trudged into the kitchen and sat heavily at a solid oak table. A spring breeze hustled fruit trees outside in their pots, cuffing one to the ground, and banged a loose shutter on the kitchen window. A brick-red tile lifted from the roof and slid, scraping, to the gutter.

Relaxed and alone, he poured beer into a mug – his mug, a treasure from his days in the legion before the order came for the fit and able to leave the Britlets to their fog-bound island - and drained half of it in a draught. Retired out of the Twentieth with a theatrical limp now agonised by arthritic joints, Messicus was left behind, widowed, master of his veteran’s allotment, a parcel of land for a family and a small farmhouse with a courtyard, an imitation of Romanness in northwest Britain.

Through the rush of wind across the field came voices like birds: Severa, his daughter, and her young man Gavo, back from who knows where.

‘Father, look!’ Severa piped happily. ‘Look what Gavo found!’

Messicus looked across the kitchen and Gavo looked back, darker-skinned than Severa and heavy in the eyebrows, son of a north African decurion and a local woman. ‘Have you been out in the woods with my daughter, young man?’

‘No, sir.’ Gavo looked shocked at the question. ‘I was foraging for firewood, for my mother.’

And I’m a three-legged goldfish, Messicus thought. ‘Show me,’ he said.

Severa laid their prize clanking on the table: three or four gold coins, a dozen silver ones, a silver bowl with inlaid decoration. ‘There’s more,’ Severa went on, ‘by the edge of the wood, where the stone road goes past on the way to the fort. There’s a rowan tree with a rock tangled in the roots. It’s there.’

Messicus gazed at the tiny hoard, for a moment unable to look away. Then he clasped his hands behind his grizzled head and looked up at the ceiling, counted spiders, measuring cracks, remembering.

‘Is there something wrong?’ Gavo asked. ‘Have we done something we shouldn’t?’

Severa cut him short. ‘Can we have the coins, father? Please? They will help so much towards – ‘

‘I know what towards, Severa,’ Messicus said, still staring at the ceiling. ‘Towards marrying Gavo. Take them, they’re coins. But put the rest back. No, don’t look at me like that. I’ll tell you why. Come with me.’

He picked up his mug and the three of them moved into the next room. Under the dust and muddy boot-marks lay a mosaic floor, the handiwork of a local artisan: key-patterns not quite as crisp as in the better villas, a dog with legs too short, a minor deity with his rapturous expression spoilt by a slight twist in the mouth. On each side stone benches lined the walls, and from beneath one of them Messicus drew a gaming board cross-hatched with lines cut into the wood.

‘A game of robbers? Now?’ Gavo asked. Severa put her finger to her lips, but the boy feigned not to notice. ‘Why?’

‘No, Gavo, not now,’ Messicus said. ‘But I was playing then, before you were born, Severa, against a Sarmatian cavalryman, Julius Valerius. His people came from the wild, cold plains out beyond Gaul, but there had been Sarmatians serving here for generations, all horsemen, and even other Sarmatians reckoned his skill with horses was almost uncanny.

‘We were old companions, in battle and in the hunt, but we met over the gaming board and fought each other like old enemies. Each little glass piece became a living warrior, no holds were barred, no cunning was too low to indulge at the other’s expense.’ Messicus grinned. ‘We had some rare games, and drank a lot. Decent wine, not this stuff.

‘It was in this room, the last game I played with Julius Valerius. We sat on this bench, with the board between us, and went on for hours. It got dark. I had torches lit, and the brazier because it was winter. We were at stalemate, going nowhere. Then he put his wine down on the floor and stood up.

‘”Giving up?” I asked. ”You say you’d rather fall under a horse than lose to me, Sarmatian.” Then I saw his face.

‘”I’m going tomorrow, Messicus,” he said. “With the draft, to Gaul against the Visigoths. Stilicho’s orders. No peace while Alaric’s on the march against Rome. I’ve buried my stuff.”

‘”What stuff?” I said. “Have you got stuff?” I don’t know why. It must have been the wine talking, because everyone’s got stuff they need to keep safe, and better buried here than stolen on the journey south.

‘He sat down again and made one more move, one glass piece one square to the right. I was trapped. My strategy was falling apart, and my most important soldier, squeezed between two of his pieces, was about to be taken – but Julius never saw it. He swept his hand across the board, jumped up and began to pace the room. “Yes, I’ve buried it, all of it, Messicus, and I’m telling no-one! One day I’ll be back and it’ll still be there, still mine.”’

‘You can tell me,” I said. “I can keep it safe. I’m not leaving, not with my wound.” ‘

‘”We’ve fought the same enemies, Messicus, and served the same Rome, but between ourselves all we do is cheat each other. I know it’s just a game, but there it is. I’m telling no-one where my stuff is hidden, not even you. Goodbye.”’

‘He stalked out of the room and I never saw him again. He never came back. As for his “stuff”, Severa is holding some of it. The coins he won from me and men like me, at least the smaller ones. The gold – he must have cheated the camp commander for those.’

Messicus waved his arm at the door and watched Severa lead Gavo through it, out into the sun. He finished his beer, thew the dregs into the yard and busied himself about the farmhouse for the rest of the day.

As evening fell, a brisk red evening with a cutting wind, Messicus took a shovel and a leather bag and went looking for a rowan beside the road into the fort. There he found what was left of Julius Valerius’ treasure, hidden under leaves and damp, grey earth. He put back the silver bowl, laid the gaming board on top and set out the pieces as he remembered them at the moment when the Sarmatian left his house and rode away to fight Alaric’s Visigoths.

He stood up gingerly on stiff legs and started to shovel soil back into the hole. Then he stopped, knelt down again and moved a single glass warrior one square to the left.

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