Guest blog: Christina Phillips - '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

Christina's Website

Ellora’s Cave 

Lindsay Townsend: 'Flavia's Secret', a new excerpt.

Here's a new excerpt of my historical romance, 'Flavia's Secret,' set in Roman Britain. In this excerpt, Flavia, a Celtic slave, is going shopping in Aquae Sulis (Roman Bath) with her new master Marcus.

Excerpt:

On their way through Aquae Sulis, Flavia kept watching for another glimpse of Agrippina’s mysterious spice seller, but did not see the caped young woman again. Soon the wonders of the city itself were clamoring for her attention—she had rarely wandered in these fashionable parts, close to the great bath itself. Certainly not in the company of a man with whom she almost had to run to keep up: Marcus’ smooth, flowing stride covered a great deal of ground. Flavia trailed in his wake as he wove effortlessly through the close-packed buildings and the bobbing mass of tourists, grizzled soldiers and trinket sellers. She was breathless and over-awed when they came to the tailor’s shop, conscious of her shabby clothing and flyaway hair.

One of a block of three, the tailor’s was a smart establishment, built within sight of a three storey hotel and the great new barrel vaulted roof of the main baths. Set between a Gaulish wine shop on one side and a potter’s selling fine tableware on the other, it was roofed with tiles rather than the more common thatch, and was in two storeys with smooth plastered walls and large wooden shutters, now fully open.

Crossing in Marcus’ shadow to its open door and supercilious-looking owner, Flavia felt even more out of place. Around her, she could smell a heady swirl of perfumes as people came and went from the baths and hear the sound of sawing and the masons shouting to each other within the precincts of the shrine itself. There was always building going on in Aquae Sulis, ancient place of healing and now a Roman spa.

Telling herself that she would one day walk these cobbled streets as a free Celt, Flavia tilted up her chin, determined to show no nerves.

‘Flavia.’ Marcus had kept glancing round to check that she was with him and now he turned back to her, blocking the view of the bowing tailor. ‘Before we are overwhelmed by offers, we should have a plan of campaign.’

He grinned, making the ragged scar close to his lower lip disappear, making light, too, of his own words and laughing at himself.

An attractive trait, Flavia thought.

‘Do you?’ he asked softly.

She had done it again, missed a question. Perhaps it was his largeness, his maleness. She stared at the hand now clasping hers, her own palm dwarfed in his. ‘I don't know,’ she murmured, for something to say. A gust of wind cut through her patched dress, dragging several strands of Marcus’ glossy dark-brown hair across his forehead. Was it as tough and unyielding as it looked?

‘You are shivering, we must go in. But if no favorites, then a color you particularly dislike—surely you have that?’

‘Yes, imperial purple,’ Flavia said promptly, returning his look with a steadiness she did not quite feel.

He laughed aloud. ‘A pert reply! Very well, little Celt, your scruples will be respected. Come.’ He drew her into the shop with him.

To see more, please go here:

http://www.lindsaytownsend.net/2008/04/flavias-secret.html

and here:

http://www.bookstrand.com/flavias-secret

Best wishes, Lindsay Townsend

Lindsay Townsend, historical romance. http://www.lindsaytownsend.net

or follow me at Twitter: @lindsayromantic