Free Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] by Captive

face. “I’ve yet to see you cower before me, Morwyn.”
    She arched her eyebrows. “And you never will, Gaul.” She glanced at his outstretched hand, as if contemplating whether or not to accept his assistance. And then he recalled her injured leg.
    “Do you wish me to lift you out?”
    Her eyes glittered in the flickering glow from the lamps. For a moment he thought she was going to accept his offer. But then she glanced at the open door and appeared to reconsider.
    “I can manage.” She tucked the cloth securely around her breasts, gripped the edge of the tub and gingerly lifted her injured leg. Even in this muted light he could see the ugly bruises marring her lower thigh.
    Trogus would pay. With interest.
    With a smothered sigh she sat on the edge of the bed and began to dry her legs with the second cloth. Her movements were graceful, sensuous, but she appeared unaware of her seduction. There were no sideways glances, no fluttering of eyelashes. She appeared on the verge of exhaustion.
    Bren shifted his weight from one foot to the other but it did nothing to relieve the arousal thudding along the length of his shaft. Why had he arranged for food to be delivered to their room? Without such interruption they could now be slaking their desire.
    But no. He’d not wanted others to see Morwyn’s battered face when they ate in the tavern. Hadn’t wanted to tolerate the inevitable muffled whispers, be the recipient of more distrustful looks, have his character assassinated yet again for actions he’d not committed.
    The boys returned, began to empty the tub with their buckets. He dragged his gaze from the hypnotic sweep of Morwyn’s hands along her legs and strode to the chest.
    “I trust you’re hungry.”
    “So long as it’s not filthy Roman imports.” She dried her arms, seemingly unaware or unconcerned by the furtive glances thrown her way by the boys as they entered and left the room.
    He sniffed the guinea fowl. “Imported, yes. But not filthy.”
    Her sigh was audible. He looked over at her as she dried her hair with the cloth, and she caught his gaze. “I’m so famished I’ll eat their heathen food. My pride doesn’t extend to starving myself over such a minor point.”
    His lip twitched but through sheer force of habit he suppressed the smile that threatened to escape. Gods. He’d met her only a few hours ago yet she’d tempted him to laughter more often this day than he could recall during the last half-dozen years.
    “I’m glad your survival instincts are so strong.”
    She gave the ends of her hair one final squeeze before tossing the saturated cloth onto the floor by the now-emptied tub. “My survival instincts are intact.” She pushed herself from the bed and came beside him to frown at the food. The top of her head didn’t even reach his jaw. “I doubt it will kill me to eat such barbarous offerings on occasion.”
    Her fresh scent invaded his senses, clean and pure. But she appeared utterly focused on the food, as if their earlier interaction had never occurred.
    As the boys dragged the tub from the room and finally shut the door, Bren handed her a plate. “You may find you like it.”
    She wrinkled her nose as she scooped up some carrots. “There’s nothing wrong with our own food. These people are Britons. Why do they serve Roman muck?”
    He tore the guinea fowl into portions and dropped a quarter onto her plate. She stared at it as if he’d just offered her a severed hand.
    “Not everything foreign is inherently inferior.”
    Morwyn wiped a finger across the poultry and then licked the flavor with her tongue. Her frown didn’t waver. “It is when the foreigners concerned are Romans.”
    Mostly, he agreed. But he’d lived the Roman way for too many years now not to have seen advantages to their systems. Their military system in particular. They hadn’t conquered the civilized world through luck alone, no matter how his people might wish that was so.
    “Sometimes survival