Chapter 3
The cold light of dawn roused Marcus from sleep. His muscles complained as he rolled over in bed, systematically clearing his mind of sleep and focusing on becoming alert—a soldier’s habitual way of waking up. Before he was finished, however, he became aware of something…missing. Turning his head and looking about, he realized there was a notable lack of a warm body in his arms.
His bed was empty. Gwen!
Stomach sinking, Marcus rose in one fluid motion, throwing off the blanket. In three paces he was at the doorway to the main room—and immediately, he relaxed.
A figure crouched before the fire, which had been stirred back to life. The person was draped with a robe and facing away from him, but Marcus needed no second glance to know it was Gwen.
Thank the gods. He’d feared, for a moment, that his druid had decided to escape.
Then he did glance again, wondering what Gwen was doing. There was no scent of cooking food. Puzzled, Marcus took a silent step closer, moving to the side so that he could see in front of Gwen.
There, on the ground before the fire, were the carved sticks Gwen had brought from his village. They were placed oddly, some in a row, some pointing to others. Gwen’s fingers were tracing the cuttings as though studying them, and he was mumbling to himself in his barbarian speech.
Marcus’ relief and happiness at seeing Gwen still in his house sank into a cold, sick knot in his stomach. Gods, what was the druid doing? Some black magic or evil ritual? Prayers to his pagan gods? Does he not realize he could be killed for this, if he is discovered? Taking another step forward, Marcus called softly, “Gwen.”
The druid gasped and spun, eyes wide and startled. Marcus might have jumped himself, had he not been a soldier. Instead, his muscles tensed slightly, ready—the combat reflexes of a centurion. He didn’t follow his reflexes, however, and take a fighting stance. Studying Gwen’s face, he quickly realized there was no shadow of guilt there—only surprise. Had Gwen been doing something intended to harm Marcus, shouldn’t he have looked guilty upon being caught? Whatever he’d been doing was clearly not secretive—Gwen made no effort to conceal the sticks. Leaving them in plain sight, he saw Marcus, sighed, and relaxed, as a man who realizes his fear was for nothing.
Marcus, too, felt his muscles loosen. Gwen’s lack of alarm, apart from the surprise, calmed him. He also now had the freedom to notice that Gwen was still nude under his robe. His body was shadowed, but clearly bare under the folds of fabric. Marcus noticed this in the same moment that Gwen’s eyes widened again, glancing down from his face. Gwen went bright red in an instant and turned his eyes back to the fire, his hands coming up instinctively to pull the cloak around himself.
Marcus’ confusion only lasted a moment before he realized that he was still naked. Glancing down, it was easy to confirm the other reason for Gwen’s shyness—Marcus was also erect. He sighed, taking in Gwen’s sudden tension as he looked pointedly away from Marcus. It was obvious what he expected, given the way Marcus was approaching him. Shaking his head, Marcus turned back to the bedroom. “Pay it no mind, Gwen,” he said, then picked up his tunic and returned, pulling it over his head and covering himself. Gwen watched, suspicious, and didn’t seem much consoled—even covered, Marcus’ erection was still obvious, his tunic tented by it. “It will pass,” he offered, tone conciliatory and in no way sexual as he approached the fire and crouched beside Gwen. “Of course, I cannot deny that I would vastly enjoy spending the morning in bed with you, but that and this are separate, and neither should trouble you now.”
Blue eyes watched him, silent but clearly skeptical, and blank of comprehension. Marcus met his gaze, feeling discouraged, then sighed again and stood. “Breakfast?” he suggested, moving to the provisions and collecting a light morning meal.
Gwen accepted the offered bread and cold meat, and Marcus sat down beside him. He ate in silence for a while, hoping to set Gwen at ease. When it didn’t seem to be working, and Gwen was still tense, even after Marcus’ morning erection had faded, he tried another approach. Holding out the food in his hand, he sought Gwen’s eyes and said, “Meat.”
Brows drawing together a moment, Gwen shook his head. He slightly raised his own dried venison, as if to show he had some and didn’t want more. Marcus smiled kindly and shook his head, then insisted, “Meat,” pointing to his own, then to Gwen’s. “Meat.”
Comprehension. “Maeth?” Gwen pointed from Marcus’ to his own.
Marcus smiled widely and nodded. “Meat.”
“Maet,” Gwen tried again, his pronunciation clearer. Then a faint smile stretched his lips, and he said something that sounded like chig. Marcus frowned, confused, and Gwen made the point by repeating the word, pointing at the food, and adding “Maet, chig.”
“Uh…shig?” Marcus ventured, prompting a wider smile, a sparkle in ocean-blue eyes, and a short stream of incomprehensible sounds in a faintly teasing tone. He huffed, but couldn’t help a tiny grin at the sight of Gwen’s smile. “Well, your speech is not perfect either. And your language is horrid compared to Latin.”
Eyebrows up, Gwen’s eyes lit as he caught a familiar sound. “Lahtin?”
“Yes,” he nodded, surprised. “Marcus speak Latin. Gwen learn Latin.” He hoped.
“Cymraeg.” Marcus’ face must have fallen—he couldn’t even begin to repeat whatever Gwen had said. But Gwen just smiled. “Mahrkhus, maet, Latin. Gwynllyw, chig, Cymraeg.”
“Ah, your language!” Marcus lit up, understanding, but it faded quickly as he tried to pronounce the word. “Keyoom…rah…” He winced, as Gwen began to laugh lightly at him. Gods…he’s laughing. It was such an utterly enchanting sound. Without knowing what he did, Marcus raised his hand, touching the side of Gwen’s face. The laughter died, but Gwen did not flinch away from him. “Gwyn…Gwynneeyew,” he breathed.
The breathless moment was shattered as Gwen snorted, laughing at him again. A short stream of strange words, filtering through the laughter, and Gwen’s eyes full of mirth and pity for him. Marcus didn’t even feel like a fool. Gwen could look upon him as a slow child all he liked—as long as he smiled and laughed, Marcus was in paradise, here in cold, wet Britannia.
It had to end, though.
Marcus had duties to attend to, soldiers to train and drill, new campaigns to plan with his superiors. Wars to wage, a land to conquer. And now—a druid to conceal, and to keep captive.
He’d dismissed his usual attendant for the time being, not wanting him to discover that his captive was a druid. Servants were not known for their tight lips. Thus, Marcus had no one to guard his house—and wouldn’t have been able to leave a guard with Gwen anyway. The next option was to…bind his prisoner. Tie him up and leave him unable to escape until Marcus returned.
Having dressed himself more thoroughly, Marcus fingered a length of rope. Gwen was in the bedchamber, putting on more clothing. Perhaps he could simply bar the door…but who knew what a druid might do? If he could play with those marked sticks of his…what if Gwen turned himself into a bird and flew up the chimney? If Marcus returned to an empty house, he’d regret not trussing the druid and leaving him bound to the bed all day…
Gwen reappeared from the bedchamber in the tunic Marcus had provided. Blue eyes looked up at him, a questioning light in them, and that ended his internal debate. Marcus had no idea why Gwen had chosen Roman clothing instead of the shirt and trousers more familiar to him, but it struck him as endearingly sweet. And beyond that, somehow, there was about Gwen something free and unfettered. Something in his eyes that belonged in a world without walls. It felt wrong to cage him at all, let alone bind him.
But…how to keep him from leaving?
Seeing the rope in Marcus’ hands, Gwen’s face fell. The disappointment and distrust drove a dagger into his chest. Marcus swallowed, his throat tight, and his hands moved quickly, knotting the rope.
Into a slip knot.
Gwen watched him, confused, as Marcus knelt before him. Glancing up, he lightly grasped a bony ankle, lifted Gwen’s foot, and slipped the loop of rope under it. Then he tightened the knot enough that it would remain around Gwen’s ankle. Rising, he took the other end to the bed and tied it to the wooden leg. He regretted not having something else to “tether” Gwen to; hopefully this wouldn’t convey the wrong meaning.
Gwen had followed him to the doorway. The length of rope was long enough that he didn’t have to, though—he could reach almost any corner of the two little rooms without removing the rope. Or, naturally, he could just remove the rope. Even if Marcus bound his hands, he could kick the tether off…and Marcus was leaving his hands free.
Drawing in a deep breath, Marcus faced his captive, took his unbound hands, and held them. “Gwen…stay. Marcus go,” he pointed to the door, “Marcus go. Later, Marcus return,” he brought his hand back, then gestured to Gwen and the room. “Gwen stay. Stay here. Please.”
Frowning, Gwen repeated, “Pl—Plaez.”
“Please.” Marcus dropped Gwen’s hands and knelt again, this time in a posture of supplication. “Please.”
Fidgeting, Gwen repeated, “Pleez.”
Marcus rose again, pointing to the two rooms around them. “Please, Gwen stay here. Marcus go. Please, Gwen no go.” He shook his head and pointed for emphasis.
Gwen cocked his head slightly, a cautious comprehension beginning in his blue eyes. “Gwen nogo, stai.”
“Yes!” Marcus nodded quickly. “Yes Gwen, please.”
For an answer, the man gave him an odd look that Marcus couldn’t interpret, and “Gwen pleez,” in a skeptical tone.
Longing to kiss him—for it might be the last time—Marcus instead placed his hands on Gwen’s bony shoulders and pulled him close in a brief but firm embrace. Then, looking into his eyes again, he asked once more, “Gwen stay? Gwen no go?”
Thoughtfully, Gwen seemed to study him. He neither returned the embrace nor resisted it. All he answered was, “Mahrkhus go. Gwen nogo.”
The urge to kiss the man rose stronger within him, but Marcus steeled himself. He’d sworn that he would not force his affections on the druid again. With a deep breath, he nodded, released his captive, and gathered his gear, preparing to leave. Gwen watched silently from the bedchamber doorway, unmoving. When Marcus was ready to depart, he did his best to do so without hounding Gwen with even more awkwardly brief, half-understood Latin commands. Still, he could not resist a lingering backward glance. The begging and promises lingered on the tip of his tongue as he looked back at Gwen, still standing there watching him. Instead, Marcus nodded once. Gwen nodded faintly in return—What does that mean? And then Marcus went out and shut the door behind himself, without barring it, more than half certain that he would never see the druid again.
~•~
Military duties consumed much of the day. Marcus’ commander had been planning the next large campaign while his centurions took firmer control of the area in the outlying towns and villages. The battle plans were taking shape, calling for a large-scale march against a town to the northwest—not as large as their current base, but an important trophy. An occupying force would be left there, and then the rest would return to this city. The commander was not revealing which centurion he had in mind to occupy the town, and it was a point of some great curiosity. The one so entrusted would have the honor of holding the line, while the main body of the army pressed their attack along other fronts. He would also have the task of subjugating the remaining villages in the surrounding valley.
He might not return to this city for a very long time, and that was a weighty point for Marcus to consider. Or, at the least, it had the potential to become an important matter. For now, he had to concern himself with what he was certain of—preparations for the march northwest—while his thoughts remained constantly circling his greatest uncertainty of all.
Whether or not his house would be empty when he returned.
He left his soldiers as soon as he could, but the dusk was gathering as he made his way back to the house, forgoing his habitual visit to the common house for supper. Another centurion had already remarked, today, upon his absence the night before, but the curiosity was quickly and easily quelled.
“I took a captive from one of the villages on our last campaign.”
The other ranking soldiers took this as all the explanation needed. One, a centurion of about ten years his senior, expressed his approval that Marcus had found something to enjoy in this distant land. No one thought any more of his captive after that.
Marcus thought of Gwen incessantly, and as he approached his commandeered house, his heart was hammering in his chest as though he were in the thick of battle. He paused on the threshold, hands to the rough-hewn wood of the door, and prayed silently to any god that would hear him.
Then…he pushed the door open.
Gwen. Thank you.
The cloaked figure before the fire rose and turned, and Gwen’s clear blue eyes greeted him, a hesitant smile surfacing and making his heart pound all the harder. Gwen still wore the tunic under his cloak, and the rope remained where Marcus had placed it—around his ankle. “Mahrkhus,” the man greeted him, then went to the corner of the room and picked up the chamber pot. With a few Briton words in a questioning tone, he gestured toward the door.
“You want to…oh.” Marcus stepped forward, holding out his hands. “Here. I’ll take that.”
Understanding, Gwen handed the pot over, and Marcus turned back to the door to take care of the business of emptying it, dumping its contents into the street. The evening air was cool against his face, and for a moment he drew in a deep breath, seeking to calm his racing heart. Gwen had not fled. Gods be praised.
Returning, he found Gwen before the fire again, gathering up his druidic sticks. Marcus had not noticed them laid out upon the ground—he’d been far too occupied with the sight of Gwen himself, and his own relief over finding him still here.
Gwen looked up as Marcus approached, and the mild calm on his face immediately faltered as he saw Marcus’ expression. “Mahrkhus?”
With an effort, he smiled tightly at the druid, but he could not banish the dark distrust entirely when he looked at the strange implements of barbarian witchcraft. Gwen’s amulet was also laid out among the sticks, and Marcus crouched beside him. He reached out, touched the carved stone surface…but Gwen only watched him curiously, doing nothing to interfere. Marcus sighed. Picking up the amulet, he hung it around Gwen’s neck again—the druid watched him still.
Marcus’ fingers touched the stone again, where it now lay against the center of Gwen’s chest. “What are these things, and what are you doing with them?” he asked softly, with a little sadness entering his words. “What evil am I harboring, with a face of innocence, and what will you do with your dark magic?” His eyes moved up to Gwen’s face, his hand to the man’s shoulder—not quite daring to brush fingers over his jaw, or into his hair. Some touches were too dangerous to his vows of restraint. Smiling weakly, he added, “I would understand if you wished to kill me…but I would prefer a dagger over these strange heathen things.”
Blue eyes watched, but understood nothing. Gwen frowned, head cocked slightly to the side—then he glanced at Marcus’ hand on his shoulder. Setting down his sticks, he unbound the cloak and pulled it off, setting it aside—his eyes downcast as he did it. Then, with a hesitant glance at Marcus again, Gwen’s hands moved to the hem of his tunic, lifting as though to remove it.
He’d barely raised the clothing when Marcus’ hands stopped him, pushing down again. Gwen looked up, plainly confused. Marcus shook his head. “Not that, Gwen.” His mouth quirked in a self-deprecating half-smile. “At least, not while undressing makes you wear that unhappy look.” Then, he released the druid’s hands and turned to the fire and provisions. “Do not think of it. Let us have supper. If you have not eaten?” Gwen blinked at him, expression blank. Marcus picked up bread and held it out. “Food, Gwen? Supper?”
Understanding lit those blue eyes again, along with a slight smile. “Sahpar?” Gwen rose and joined him by the provisions, and Marcus smiled, picking out a cold meal for them both.
Again, they traded words over the meal. Gwen seemed to remember most of the words from the day before, and his pronunciation generally improved with each repetition. Marcus, unfortunately, could not remember a single word of Gwen’s speech, and his mimicry sounded pathetic even to him. He felt like a dunce, yet at the same time found it hard to mind the feeling, for his fumbling mispronunciations brought mirth to blue eyes, a smile to Gwen’s lips, and even, occasionally, a laugh—as beautiful a sound as ever, and one that made his heart feel light and blissful. Troubling thoughts were banished in the easy joy of Gwen’s company.
Not until after dinner did Marcus remember the tether around Gwen’s ankle—and it seemed that Gwen forgot it as well, for as he began to walk, he half-tripped over it. Marcus was swift to apologize, kneeling before the man and loosening the knot. “Forgive me, I did not mean for you to keep wearing this.” He lifted Gwen’s foot slightly and slipped the rope free, muttering, “I would rather never ask you to wear it again…”
But there his voice faded. His hand still held Gwen lightly by the ankle, and Gwen’s legs…before him, so close…up to the edge of the tunic…
Glancing up, he swallowed, chest tight. Gwen blinked down at him, suddenly very still. Marcus remained frozen, but his mind moved with rushing speed—his hands on Gwen’s legs…running up under the tunic, pushing it away…hips, cock…kneeling like this, he could take the man in his mouth in a matter of moments, he could taste him again…
Clearing his throat roughly, Marcus released Gwen’s ankle. His cock was swelling in his loincloth. Hopefully he will not notice. He rose stiffly. “Let us…sleep.” With a gesture, he waved Gwen to follow him to the bedchamber. He tossed the rope tether at the foot of the bed and pointed, “You can have the bed. Ah…Gwen sleep. Bed.” He slapped the surface. “Bed. Gwen sleep in bed.” Then, not quite daring to fully look at the man, he returned to the main room and began to lay his bedroll out before the fire.
“Mahrkhus?”
Looking up, he saw Gwen standing in the doorway, looking confused again. “Ah…Mahrkhus…sheepin bed?” He pointed behind him at the bed.
Shaking his head, Marcus pointed to the bedroll. “Marcus bed. Sleep here.” He pointed to the bedchamber. “Gwen bed. Sleep there.”
Giving him an utterly baffled look, Gwen shook his head. “Mahrkhus…shleep Gwen?” He pointed to the bedroll, then behind him to the bed. “Shleep Gwen?”
“Ah…” Marcus stared, unsure what the druid was asking him. Huffing out a frustrated sigh, Gwen seemed to give up on words—instead, he came forward, hauling off his tunic as he approached. “No, no!” Marcus straightened and tried to intervene, but Gwen was already bare to his loincloth when Marcus reached him. His reflex to try to push the clothing back over Gwen’s head faltered—he dared not touch…not now, with Gwen nearly nude…
Face hot, Marcus cleared his throat, forcing his eyes to Gwen’s face. “No, that’s not…not what I meant…” He plucked at the tunic Gwen still held, trying to push it closer to the man in a way that would indicate he should put it back on…without bringing Marcus into contact with his skin. “Ah…sleep does not mean…” Wincing, he turned to the bedroll, lay down, and placed his hands under his head. “Sleep!” He closed his eyes, made a faint snoring sound, opened them again and looked to Gwen for comprehension. “Sleep.”
Understanding seemed to be slowly dawning as Gwen repeated, “Sleep…” Then he frowned again. Draping his tunic over an arm to free his hands, he made a gesture that made Marcus’ face hot again—one finger shoved through a ring made by the fingers of the other hand. Gwen shook his head, repeating “Sleep?” as though asking if this was not the right word.
“Ah. No.” Marcus stood, wishing Gwen would cover himself a bit better with that tunic. “That is…sex.”
“Thahtiss, seks?” Gwen repeated the gesture. Marcus swallowed. How could something so simple and crude made his cock swell even further?
“No…” Red-faced, he copied the gesture, saying only, “Sex.”
“Seks.” The gesture again. Marcus struggled to look up from Gwen’s hands—strong fingers…calluses…
He nodded. “Yes.”
Nodding, but frowning in concentration, Gwen took a step closer. He pointed behind himself, “Gwen shleep…” then to the bedroll, “Mahrkhus shleep.” Then, seeming to struggle with his few words a moment, he ended by asking cautiously, “Mahrkhus…seks…Gwen?”
He shook his head quickly. “No.” Blue eyes continued to watch him, studying him, and now Marcus met that gaze. “No sex.” Unless you desire it… But he didn’t have the words to convey that much, and judging by Gwen’s expression, he wasn’t asking for sex. He was only trying to understand. He wasn’t aroused; there was no desire in his eyes.
“No seks?” The man cocked his head slightly. Then he pointed directly at Marcus’ groin, without any apparent shame. “No?”
In spite of his loincloth’s containment, Marcus’ bulge was showing through the tunic. Simply pointing it out communicated the question better than any words—why would Marcus not seek sex from someone he had already taken to bed, when his body clearly displayed his desire?
How could he explain? With so few words, how could be make Gwen understand? Even when he thought he had the right words and the concept was simple enough—You sleep there, I sleep here—Gwen had not understood him. Miscommunication, confusion over something so minor…he could never convey the complexity of this situation and his feelings. Not…not with words.
Perhaps…
He stepped forward, but hesitated. He dared not… Plucking at the tunic on Gwen’s arm, he took it, Gwen allowing him. He awkwardly tried to push it over the other man’s head, but only succeeded in getting Gwen tangled in it. A bemused snort, and Gwen finally complied, taking over and disentangling himself and yanking the clothing back into place. Marcus smiled faintly, nodding. Then, he gently took Gwen into his arms, embracing him tightly.
As before, there was no resistance. Gwen stood still as Marcus wrapped his arms around the thin body, holding him like a precious thing, close to his heart. He kept his hips pulled back so that his erection would not touch Gwen, but otherwise pressed close, chest to chest. The planes of Gwen’s solid back felt wonderful under his hands, the gentle rise and fall as he breathed…the faint pulse of his heartbeat against Marcus’ chest. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling the man’s scent, turning his face to press into his hair.
Drawing back just enough to look into Gwen’s eyes, he found a look of…he wasn’t sure. Gwen’s eyes were a mix of uncertainties. He was plainly affected, but what he was thinking, Marcus couldn’t even begin to guess.
So…he kissed him.
With all of his heart and none of his lust, he kissed him—soft and sweet and reverent. His hands moved to Gwen’s face, then combed through his hair, and though Marcus could feel his body’s desires clamoring for control, he forced them down and refused to let physical need hold sway in this kiss. And when he released Gwen at last, he met those deep, beautiful blue eyes for a long moment. Admiration filled him, his gaze warm with it, as with all the strange, new feelings he harbored for this…noble, beautiful barbarian.
There was no way to know how much of it Gwen understood, but Marcus did his best to lay his own heart bare in that lingering gaze. Gwen’s confusion seemed to fade into a sort of…dazed wonderment. Good. He will have something to think about, at least. He will have reason to doubt whatever he has concluded about my intent in bringing him here.
Smiling gently, Marcus stroked the side of Gwen’s face, brushing over his beard. “Sleep, Gwen. Please.”
Still wondering, Gwen nevertheless nodded, and when Marcus stepped away, he did likewise and went to the bedchamber. His eyes, as he went, marked the even more prominent bulge of Marcus’ erection, now pushing the tunic out in a tent, but Gwen made no comment in word or gesture.
Once alone, Marcus undressed, lay down in his bedroll, and gripped his cock. With rapid strokes, he brought himself to completion as quickly as possible. The climax brought relief, but no satisfaction, and sleep brought only dreams—dreams filled with fresh tortures until dawn.