Forbidden Pleasures Read online

  Forbidden Pleasures

  Amanda McIntyre

  Britannia, 400 A.D.

  Torin has dedicated his life to battle, first as a Roman warrior and now defending his native Britannia from the Saxons. Finding pleasure with a woman is far from his mind—until he encounters Alyson, a flame-haired Celtic servant who arouses his desire like never before.

  Alyson is also drawn to the strong yet gentle warrior, especially when she feels magic in his touch. How could she resist his allure when the gods themselves compel her to be with him? But while fate may have a special destiny in store for Torin, it is Alyson’s choice to act on their passion….

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  About this Story

  Prologue

  Britannia, 500 A.D.

  “You are certain he is of my blood?” General Ambrosius stated, studying the soldiers eyes. You could tell the character of a man by the look in his eyes, a skill honed from years on the field of battle. He also had the reputation of being meticulous. To be any less, would have meant certain death for him and his men. He’d searched far and wide to pin down the recent rumors of a Romo-Brit warrior with a questionable lineage. Few others knew Vortigern, the former High king of Britannia, as well as Ambrosious or the king’s insatiable lust for women. And this rumor, if it was true, could change the course of Britannia forever.

  The guard pressed his clenched fist to his breast in homage to his liege. “I found the village where he was born. They say that Commander Torin’s half sister is the Saxon executioner’s apprentice, but Vortigern is not her father.” The guard kept his eyes lowered. “There is confirmation from the husband of an old midwife in the village who delivered the boy child. He said that his wife went to her grave carrying the secret that she was sworn to keep.”

  “You imply that Commander Torin is Vortigern’s bastard child?” General Ambrosius drew his own conclusion. He’d known, of course, of his half brother’s horrific reign. At a vulnerable time for the Brits, Vortigern had steppe in proclaiming himself high king. A brutal, greedy and cruel ruler, even to his own people, it was possible that Vortigern had numerous bastard children throughout the lands he’d lost. Though none, perhaps in a strange twist of fate that was now an esteemed Roman warrior. Even more strange, it was said that an unknown Celt, a rebel warrior against Vortigern’s bloody reign, put an end to the high kings violent reign, and then disappeared.

  “Is there any more to report?” The General asked, anxious to find this great half-Celtic, half-Roman warrior. The general wondered if this Commander Torin had any idea of his potential lineage.

  The young warrior’s fierce loyalty to Rome had brought his skill and leadership to the attention of many—especially the Roman emperor. It was said this Torin was a loner, trusting few, and only those with whom he’d trained and gone into battle. General Ambrosius had heard that Commander Torin was a physical man, unafraid of confrontation, barbaric in his methods and having a keen head for justice. Such a man would serve Ambrosious’s purposes well to have such a man at his side to rally the Celts together in battle against the Saxon horde. In recent months, a number of Rom-Celt leaders, what was left of those driven from their villages, migrated to General Ambrosious’s villa, knowing he was a sympathizer to their plight. They’d offered their servitude in return for his help in waging war to claim back their land. Though Ambrosius was sympathetic to their suffering, he was aging and without the numbers of men to face the Saxon army.

  “If I may speak freely, General?”

  “Go on.” General Ambrosius directed the soldier as he held his goblet for the lovely servant girl, daughter of one of his finest Celt workers. In fact, the entire family had worked in his household for a number of months. She filled his cup, her smile shy. She was young, fair and polished, her skin scrubbed fresh of paint, unlike the custom of most Roman women. Ambrosious smiled at the young woman, her rich, fiery hair looped over her shoulder in a single braid. With a gentle touch, he reached out and traced his finger along the gentle curve of his jaw. She slipped away, eyes lowered. Celtic women, he’d discovered, had a simplicity about them that was beautiful in its own way and their loyalty was as fierce as any man’s.

  “If it is true that the Commander was indeed raised in the area, his knowledge of the terrain would be an advantage in battle against the Saxon ruler. There is more to confirm my findings.”

  “Yes?”

  “There is rumor that Commander Torin and his men living in secret caves in the mountains, hiding village survivors and training them.”

  “Perhaps planning an attack?” the general said, thinking aloud.

  “That would appear to be one possibility, sir.”

  General Ambrosious raised his eyebrow. Retirement had made him too easily distracted by earthly pleasures. He was tired of the fighting. Still, these wandering souls were counting on him. They felt abandoned by Rome, left to the murderous rampage of the Saxons.

  The bottom line was that he needed a strong leader and Commander Torin and his men were ex-bucellari, the best of Romans’ trained armies, reserved only for high-ranking Roman officers.

  As to the matter regarding the future of Britannia, and who would be its next ruler, that would be decided on the field of battle. “See to it that he and his men receive my invitation to visit at my villa. Let them know that I wish to discuss with them, our mutual dissatisfaction with present conditions in Britannia. General Ambrosious stood, looking at the view of the lush green valley beyond his gardens. He lifted his glass in hope of Lord Aeglech’s demise and the fall of his bloody reign.

  Chapter One

  The woman’s flesh was silky smooth against Alyson’s hands, which were calloused from hard labor. She wondered if Tulia, great-niece of her master, General Ambrosius, was aware of how rough her hands were. More conscious of that fact, she tried not to press too hard against the woman’s flesh.

  Since the wealthy woman’s arrival three days before, Alyson had been assigned to her personally. She’d helped to fit and sew a new gown, bathed her daily, including generous oil massages, and had fixed and served her meals—in essence, attended to her every need. Tulia’s tastes were picky and extravagant. A woman used to finer luxuries, thinking only of herself. If it were it not for the arrival of one of Rome’s most noted young warriors, Alyson doubted if Tulia would be caught dead out here in the Gaelic countryside, surrounded by barbaric Celtic servants. Just why she was there remained a mystery, but the servants said that her father had sent her to keep an eye on what Ambrosius was up to. Tulia showed no respect, even to her uncle, and so received none in return. Most only tolerated her presence and tried to avoid her unruly temper.

  A quiet sigh brought Alyson from her reverie and she glanced down at Tulia’s softly rounded backside. She was beautiful. There was no dispute in that, if one did not bother to go deeper than the surface. Every day, she lavished her skin with perfumed oils and her hair was brushed in a nightly routine, always by a male servant. Perfectly applied, she lined her dark eyes above and below with smoky dark kohl and painted her lips and cheeks with the dusty rose hue of crushed earth powders. Whatever the reason for Tulia being sent to visit her uncle, she was taking every preparation to impress him.

  Alyson had never before sensed such a vivid contrast between herself and another woman. Her hands were dry, chafed from tending the wash, minding the garden. Her skin was golden brown, parched by the sun, and her fiery red hair knew not the scent of roses, but was washed in a sacred pool deep in the woods.

  “More oil, and be certain it has the proper balance of rose scent. I want to leave a subtle
allure in the room, not overwhelm the good commander.”

  “Aye, milady,” Alyson responded. Tulia had not, in the recent days since her arrival, been an easy person to please. She flaunted her wealth and royal lineage, using it in selfish fits of temper when things weren’t to her liking. Because she was of the general’s blood, the entire staff had made the effort to please her as best as they could, trying to avoid any backlash from the general.

  With a disgruntled sigh, Tulia flipped on her back. It was an exquisitely odd occurrence for a routine massage. Alyson dropped her hands to her sides, looking down as she awaited her orders. From the corner of her eye, she could see Tulia’s dark eyes, almost sinister, glittering with wickedness. She knew her body was alluring, too perfect for any man to resist. Her breasts, pale and creamy, their rosy tips peaking atop the soft mounds of flesh, thrust upward in proud display.

  “Continue,” she ordered bitterly as though perturbed she had to ask.

  Compliant to her request, Alyson continued, having earlier in the day been the object of Tulia’s lightning wrath. With a snarling accusation that she’d purposely brought her too tepid a wine, she’d thrown the goblet at Alyson, barely missing her head.

  Alyson tipped the delicate, long-necked pitcher that held the warmed oil, letting the oil drizzle over the slope of Tulia’s belly, causing her to squirm in sensuous bliss. Alyson kept her eyes focused on her hands, viewing the task as a command, trying to ignore the whispered sighs of arousal coming from Tulia’s lips. She was not oblivious to the pleasures of the human body, but to her, such things were a gift from the gods, meant for satisfying the one intended for you by the gods. She’d never before touched a woman for purposes of pleasure. But she’d heard the stories of the Roman excesses—in food, drink and carnal pleasures. Some of the stories paled in comparison to the thought that Celts were barbaric in nature.

  She moved her palms—saturated with warm oil—over Tulia’s ribs, brushing lightly over her breasts, and moved quickly to her shoulders and neck. The thought of such intimacies with a man Alyson had now and again pondered. She wondered how passion could be achieved with another woman and the thought frightened her, but not as much as Tulia’s demanding ways.

  “You have family here? Is that true?” she purred quietly, her hands relaxed at her sides.

  “Aye, milady. They work the fields. General Ambrosius has been very kind to them, and to me.”

  “How kind?” she asked, casting a curious look at Alyson.

  Curious to know what she implied with her question, Alyson guarded well her tongue. If Tulia could find reason to belittle her uncle, Alyson guessed that she would do so in a heartbeat to gain favor. “A good home and fair wages. He is a just and noble man,” Alyson replied.

  The young woman snorted. “My father says that will be his ruin, consorting with the barbarians to save land that by rights belongs to Rome.”

  Alyson quelled the urge to squeeze the woman’s flesh tight until it left an ugly bruise.

  “Not that all the Celts are entirely barbaric, of course.” She gave Alyson a condescending smile. “So you are saying that my good uncle has never laid a finger on you?”

  Alyson gave Tulia a side glance and continued to perform her duty.

  “Oh, not that I expect you to admit to such a thing. Of course, you may already have a man that you wouldn’t want to find out. I know that if my father ever found out that I had offered my body to a man he’d strip me of my flesh.”

  Alyson silently continued, the pressure of her fingertips increasing slightly.

  “Your hands are rough,” Tulia stated quietly. “Much like a man’s.” She closed her eyes, her dark lashes fanning black against her pale cheeks.

  “My apologies, milady,” Alyson mumbled. “Perhaps you would prefer someone else—”

  Tulia grabbed Alyson’s wrists, her dangerous, ebony gaze holding her hostage.

  “They are perfect, in fact. Just the way I like hands to be.” She covered her breasts with Alyson’s hands, sandwiched beneath her own, and began to move them, caressing her fleshy mounds.

  “Do you enjoy such pleasures?” she sighed breathlessly.

  Unsure of what to do short of casting a druid spell on the woman, Alyson tolerated the motion, unaffected, but apparently not so for Tulia, as she watched the woman’s eyes flutter. A look of ecstasy washed over her face.

  “Touch me…there.”

  She pushed one of Alyson’s hands lower, where Alyson had, in her morning regime, shaved clean the woman’s triangular patch of blond hair.

  “I want oil there, between my legs,” Tulia demanded, parting her knees.

  With the thought of what might happen to her or her family if she did not comply, Alyson slid her hand between Tulia’s thighs, repeating the massage technique she used on the rest of her.

  The beautiful woman’s eyebrows pressed together, her body writhing with pleasure. “Harder,” she whispered, her teeth raking over her lower lip, as she lifted her hips against Alyson’s palm. There was a moment when Alyson’s mouth grew dry, caught up in the sensual bliss, but most of her just wanted to complete the task so she could move on with her day.

  Tulia’s breathing grew shallow, catching with the rhythmic movement of hips. “No, no,” she muttered angrily. A low growl of agitation crawled from her throat.

  She knocked Alyson’s hand out of the way, sending the oil vase crashing to the floor. Grasping one of her breasts, Tulia shoved the other hand between her legs, stroking herself in unashamed wild abandon.

  Alyson attempted to avoid watching the woman lost in her own passion and bent down to pick up the shards of broken pottery. Gasping, exaggerated groans flew from Tulia’s lips and the sound of her hips slapping against the marble table sounded next to Alyson’s ear. A moment later, Tulia’s breath caught, followed by a prolonged scream that echoed in the small windowless room. Then all was silent, save the quiet sound of Tulia regaining control of her breathing.

  “Next time, you will find me an adequate servant to care for my needs.”

  Alyson stayed on her knees, the slick-oiled pottery shards dripping between her fingers. “Yes, milady.”

  “I will be in the tepidarium. Bring me refreshments.”

  “Yes, milady.” She kept her gaze down, hearing Tulia slide from the table. After a moment she stood, believing she was alone. Her eyes met Tulia’s, who’d stopped at the door and was looking back at her, her towel draped over her elbow. She offered Alyson a deadly smile.

  “I do like the roughness of your hands.” She licked her lips and continued on her way.

  Alyson turned her hand and dumped the bits into a nearby urn. The woman was insatiable. Her greed equal to her lust, she’d bedded more than half the servants since her arrival, insisting on massages daily. She came from the roots of Rome, where people were used to taking what they wanted, when they wanted it and by force if necessary. Hadn’t their forefathers seen that happen? And then when another power greater threatened what they’d taken, they suddenly had other wars to fight and pulled out all their troops, leaving hundreds of villages at the mercy of the Saxon. General Ambrosius, however, was not like most Romans. He was sympathetic to their plight and, Alyson believed, was looking for ways to help the Celtic people. His niece, on the other hand, was a different matter altogether. Alyson gathered the towels left on the floor from the morning baths. No, Tulia was well versed in how to take what she wanted and gave little thought it seemed to giving back. The imbalance in her spirit was volatile and Alyson knew how dangerous such a woman could be. Moreover, Alyson pondered why the general in Rome would choose now, of all times, to send his daughter for a visit to her uncle? Perhaps the rumors were true that somewhere in the mountains small bands of villagers had been gathering in greater numbers to face the deadly Saxon. She’d overheard her father talking to other men, but he did not discuss such things openly.

  Grateful that her duties today included only the wash and serving cena later in the day, she was g
lad that the general had not requested she entertain guests with her reading of palms. This skill, and her visions, came from her druid origin, which both her mother and grandmother possessed and was nurtured at an early age. She used her powers sparingly, letting the gods dictate where and how they were to be used.

  She hurried to the kitchen to see if her mother needed any help before she began the wash for the day. Tonight the general had planned a special feast for his guests, complete with sumptuous foods, music and the favors of certain village women. No doubt, it would stretch into the wee hours of the dawn. Already rumors buzzed among the servants that these men must be very special guests indeed and that the warriors were reported to have the strength of the gods and a magical power over women. Already Alyson’s father had determined she was to return to the house immediately when her duties were complete.

  “You’ve heard that the general’s niece is visiting?” Dryston grinned wickedly at Torin. “I’d bet my sword that the timing of her visit is not mere happenchance.”

  Torin cast him a look of warning. Dryston, his brother by choice and not blood, was forever teasing him about his lack of adventure when it came to women. The truth was he had too many concerns on his mind to entertain such thoughts.

  “I hear she is the most desired of women throughout Rome.”

  “Only Rome?” Torin quipped.

  Dryston offered a smile that said he knew he had gotten through to Torin. “I’ve heard, too, that her hair is like a golden sunrise and her skin pale and smooth as moonlight. That her breasts—”

  Torin interrupted his spontaneous sonnet to the woman. “My poor depraved brother, do you not think of anything else?”

  Dryston chuckled. “Apart from imprisonment or battle, no, sir, my mind stays readily occupied on the fairer creatures. It is one of life’s few pleasures I can afford.”