Highlander's Sweet Promises

by Tarah Scott

  He reached out his hand to touch her, but held it in midair for a moment. He knew what she meant. His heart had felt like it was held in a vice since the first day he’d laid eyes on her. Sighing, Taran rested his hand on her shoulder. Her body trembled. “’Tis all right, my love.”

  Her sobs became wails after he spoke. He had to be the most unimaginable lout who had ever lived. His insides ripping apart, he ran his hand over her hair. He pulled her around and cradled her in his arms.

  “T-this is s-so h-hard.”

  “I ken.” He kissed her forehead. “I never want to let ye go.”

  She pushed back against his chest. “Then why are you?” She glared at him through swollen tear-worn eyes. Her hair matted and wild from sleep and her mad dash through the forest, she looked like a tormented creature.

  “I thought that was what ye wanted—to go back to yer people.”

  “Yes—so I don’t have to watch you wed a-a-another.” Valeria burst into another round of uncontrolled sobbing.

  His heart breaking, Taran cradled her in his arms. It took every ounce of strength he possessed to withhold the words he longed to utter—Become a Pict and marry me. Valeria must see Bishop Elusius again. Taran needed to discern if she was now more Roman or Pict. He knew concealing this test was not fair to her, but he had to know if she could renounce allegiance to Rome. This would not come through words, but through her actions.

  Tormented, Taran rubbed his cheek against her silken raven hair.

  “I love you.”

  Though he didn’t recognize the voice, his throat vibrated when he uttered the words. They sounded as if they had floated down from the clouds and rested upon his shoulders, making him wonder if she’d heard him. He realized she had when sobs racked her body harder.

  ***

  When they emerged from the forest, Pia rushed toward them. Riding Blackie, Taran still felt like shite. One look at Valeria’s puffy eyes, and Pia became aflutter with worry. “Lord help us, where are you injured?”

  “I’m not hurt, just a bit traumatized. Taran’s wound needs tending.”

  Pia’s eyes shot to him and Taran waved her away. “’Tis only a scratch.”

  She grasped Blackie’s bridle. “I’ll be the one to determine that. Dismount and let me have a look.”

  Taran glanced at Valeria and knew there was no use trying to argue. Moments later he sat on a log while Pia used more of his precious mead, the sting making his eyes roll back. She then attacked him with a needle and thread. He clenched his teeth and balled his fists as he endured her ministrations, which hurt far more than the initial slash with the blade.

  “You’ll thank me when I’m done,” Pia said.

  “Right. Me gut thinks otherwise.”

  He sighed. They’d managed to thwart the attack with minor injuries.

  As soon as Pia tied off the last suture, Taran had them all mount up. All seven horses unscathed, they rode under a light cloud cover.

  Valeria chose to ride beside Manas, toward the rear of the company. Taran glanced at her and she looked away. He resisted his urge to circle back and attempt to talk. He also needed to sort through his own raw emotions.

  He gazed at the sky and tried to imagine what it would be like to be married to Leda. She had grey-blue eyes that always seemed as if they were about to cry. She was attractive in her way, but plain, with pale lips that disappeared when she smiled. She had solid child-bearing hips and his mother said she would not suffer birthing a babe.

  He’d known Leda since meeting her at Dunpelder when his parents took him to a gathering. She’d always been friendly and he cared for her, but she was like a sister to him. The thought of touching her the way he touched Valeria made his stomach turn. He could see himself kissing Leda on the forehead, or on her cheek, but a deep passionate kiss that roused every nerve in his body, that made him feel like a king? No. He feared he would never find such love again.

  He looked over his shoulder again. Valeria was talking animatedly with Manas. The boy looked to the horizon and pointed.

  “The wall,” Valeria cried, breaking into a canter with Manas on her heels.

  “No.” He spurred Blackie to a gallop. “Stop! ’Tis not safe.”

  Valeria’s laughter carried on the wind.

  Taran kicked his heels harder. “Valeria, Manas!”

  Her laughter ended abruptly when an arrow sliced through the air and pierced the dirt in front of them.

  She yanked her reins down. “Manas! Arrows!”

  The boy doubled back just as an arrow shot within inches of his horse’s shoulder.

  “Dismount,” Taran commanded. “We’ll wait here until they send a sentry.” He eyed them all. “I’ll do the talking.”

  Taran stood with Greum and Seumas on either side while Fionn hung back with the women and Manas. He prayed the guard would recognize him from the many Pict gatherings that had taken place at Dunpelder. But until then, the Picts who defended the wall were under Oisean’s orders to treat all approaching parties as the enemy.

  Not long, and five Pict warriors clad in breastplates and helmets rode to meet them. Taran removed his helmet and shook his head, letting the wind take charge of his mop of unruly hair. The men approached and lowered their lances for a quick attack should they determine Taran’s band the enemy.

  Taran held both of his hands above his head. “I am Taran, son of Brude.” He turned his face revealing the sign tattooed on his cheek and opened the laces on his tunic so they could see his father’s sign over his heart.

  The leader eyed him with suspicion. “Ye look like Brude’s son, yer hair gives it away. We heard news of the king.”

  “Aye. Oisean is dead. Killed by the Attacotti bastards, but we avenged his death. Twenty Attacotti lives were taken including that of their leader, Runan, the greatest bastard of all.”

  The leader’s eyes fell to Taran’s scabbard displaying the bejeweled hilt. “Ye carry the king’s sword.”

  Greum’s hand grasped his own weapon. “Taran is King of the Picts. I suggest ye pay him due respect now, or ye’ll feel the cold iron of me wrath run through ye.”

  The leader nodded to the others and they dismounted. Kneeling, they bowed their heads.

  “I am Morgon, son of Dugas. You honor us with your presence.”

  “Rise, Morgon. Tell me, what news of the Romans?”

  “Driven south, some say as far as Londontown. Just this morning a rider brought word they’ve named the uprising the Barbarian Conspiracy.”

  “Barbarian? And to call it a conspiracy demonstrates their refusal to recognize the true lords of Britannia—we took back what was rightfully ours. Unbelievable.” Taran splayed his fingers to cool his ire. “Word has it they’re marching a legion from Hispania.”

  “We’re ready for them, sire. We have reinforcements established at every milecastle along the wall.”

  “Good. We’re traveling through. Have ye heard any word of a Bishop Elusius?”

  “A Roman holy man?”

  “Aye.”

  “All the Romans we’ve encountered are dead.” His eyes shot to Valeria. “Why would ye be seeking the likes of him?”

  “We’ve heard tales of his healing powers,” Taran fibbed. “We’ve come to spirit him to Dunpelder.”

  ***

  Valeria breathed a sigh when Morgon’s gaze shifted to Taran. Fortunately, she wore a woolen Pict gown with sleeves ending in a point beyond her fingertips. Traveling in Pict garb, she’d avoid drawing attention, as long as they didn’t hear her accent. It was hard to believe she was moving through the realm, which was occupied by her countrymen not so long ago, now teamed with the enemy. She stared at the backs of the three men who protected her from Morgon. They are the enemy? How could I even consider it?

  Satisfied with Taran’s story, Morgon and his men led them back to Houseteads. Valeria didn’t miss the way Seumas rushed to Pia and kissed her lips before helping her mount. Had Pia found love out here among the barbarians like Valeri
a had? In Rome, Pia’s feelings would not matter. She was property to be used however the Fullofaudes household saw fit.

  Valeria swallowed. Right now she was the executor of her family’s property. At least until she married, which would be required upon her return, lest her lands fall into the hands of the Emperor. Presently, however, under Roman law she had complete power over Pia’s actions. But under Pict rule, Pia is a free woman.

  A clammy chill swept across Valeria’s skin when they rode into the ruins of Vindolanda. The black charred walls stood as a reminder of the fateful eve when her father lost his life. In one night, everything familiar had been ripped away. Valeria’s mind swarmed with confusion about her life, her role, her allegiance. Growing up cloistered in her father’s estate, studying under the best tutors, she’d never questioned the absolute rule of Caesar and the rigid laws of Rome. She was taught to believe she’d been born into an affluent society that had risen to power because of their superior ingenuity, knowledge and power. She had been told she was privileged and others would admire her for her station in life. Do I now respect and honor the Roman aristocracy, Roman superiority…Roman tyranny?

  Taran helped her dismount. With trepidation, she climbed the stone staircase leading to the home she’d only known for a few weeks. The tapestries, curtains, furniture, everything that could be burned was charred or turned to ash—or missing. The sulfur stench of death exuded from the walls.

  The door to her chamber had been ripped from its hinges and lay across the floor. It teetered when she stepped on it and stumbled awkwardly into her room. All that remained of her bed was the charred wooden frame. Slowly, she walked in, holding herself as she bit her bottom lip. She remembered waking that fateful night, seeing the attackers scale the wall and kill the Roman soldier. Those were Picts, or perhaps they were Attacotti.

  A shimmer on the floor caught her eye. She bent down. With a trembling hand Valeria picked up her mother’s looking glass of polished brass. The sheen had been dulled by fire, making the reflection hazy. Gazing at the face in the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. Her matted hair made her look like a witch. Blown by the wind, mussed by sleep, it had not been brushed by Pia since they left Dunpelder. This is not the countenance of a Roman lady.

  A tear slipped from her eye and she swallowed hard. I shall not cry. Across the room she spotted the scorched trunk that contained her possessions. Valeria dashed over and threw it open. Aside from the smoky odor, everything inside remained intact. She held up a rose silk peplos. It had been her mother’s.

  She buried her face in the soft fabric. What was she doing riding with Picts? Was everything she’d been taught wrong? Who was she? What did she believe? What was in her heart?

  On one hand, she was overjoyed something of her life remained. But grief tugged at her heart. Memories of her father’s last moments clutched at her throat and made her mouth run dry. She’d not only lost him, but now questioned everything she’d known to be true. Her heart squeezed. How could she go on?

  The people who attacked Vindolanda were Picts and Attacotti. They believed they were claiming their rightful lands. The men who attacked them at the roundhouse were filthy Roman deserters, reduced to stealing horses. In the past month, all of her deep-rooted values had been challenged. Everything she once loved had been lost, and now she was on a quest to find a man to take her back to a life where she would rejoin the Roman aristocracy—take her home to become a hypocrite. Exactly like the men in the senate and her uncle Valentinian himself.

  Taran appeared at the door. “Valeria.”

  Her body tensed. “Please. Leave me alone.”

  “Is that yer dress?”

  She looked down at the expensive silken hand-stitched fabric and nodded. “’Twas my mother’s.”

  Kneeling, Valeria stared at the contents of the trunk, the last remains of her life. Taran paid no mind to her request for solitude and clamored over the door. “’Tis lovely.” Coming up beside her, he eyed the chest.

  “This is all that remains of my life.” Valeria had no more tears inside her. Desperate hollowness filled her bosom. She rummaged through the lovely silk and woolen garments, the ornate hair combs and ribbons, Roman sandals. She hesitated as she eyed a book, Distichs of Cato. She lifted it up and held it to her breast as if it were a long lost pet.

  “We can hitch up a cart and take yer things with us.”

  She tried to smile. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “’Tis a full day’s ride to Pons Aelius. I thought we’d camp here for the night. Morgon has ample food for all.”

  She wanted to leave Vindolanda and its memories behind. Valeria sighed. Everyone needed rest, including the horses. “Very well, but I’d like to leave at first light.”

  Stag meandered in, the door clanking under his huge paws. He seemed to sense Valeria’s melancholy mood. He sidled up to her and placed his head on her shoulder with a whimper. The dog wagged his tail and shook his body, as if trying to make her happy. When that didn’t work, he planted a wet slurp on Valeria’s cheek.

  “Enough, Stag,” Taran scolded.

  Valeria petted him. “I want to find Mia.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Locating Mia wasn’t difficult. Valeria and Taran walked straight into the stables, which had been spared from the fires. The mare stood, munching hay without a care, as if time had not passed since that fateful night.

  With a squeal of joy, Valeria flew to the stall. “Mia! I cannot believe you’re still here.”

  The horse snorted and whickered when she caught Valeria’s scent.

  “There, there, girl. It looks like the war has passed you by.”

  A Pict warrior bounded through the stable. Helmeted with a bent nose guard, he appeared as ferocious as a gladiator. “Remove yer hands of me horse.”

  Valeria whipped around, hands on hips. “Your horse? I’ll tell you…”

  Taran stepped in front of her. “This mare belongs to her ladyship.”

  The warrior’s eyes nearly popped out of his helmet. “Her ladyship? From the sound of her, she’s a bloody Roman wench.”

  Taran’s fingers wrapped around his hilt. “She’s under the protection of Taran, son of Brude.”

  The warrior stepped in and examined the symbol tattooed on his cheek, then lifted his hand and pulled aside the V in Taran’s tunic. “Ye’re Taran, are ye not?”

  “Aye.”

  “Apologies, sire.” The warrior stepped back and bowed. “She’s a fine mount—too good to be wasted on a lady.”

  Taran kept his hand on his hilt. “This is not just any lady. But we can make a trade. We have a Pictish mare with heavier bone, better suited to your weight. If you agree, you will sit in a place of honor at the next Dunpelder gathering.”

  The warrior eyed him suspiciously but kept his hands away from his weapons. “Why are ye protecting the Roman?”

  “The woman saved me life, and now I’m repaying the favor by allowing her to live.”

  His chainmail clanked when he stepped closer. The warrior’s eyes trailed from the top of Valeria’s head and stopped at her breasts. He then continued his inspection, his eyes moving down to her hips, appraising them like he would a prized heifer. “She’s a fine lass indeed.” He winked. “I’ll bet she keeps ye heading for ye bed at night.”

  Taran’s knuckles grew white. “’Tis no talk for a lady’s ears.”

  Valeria stepped forward. “Thank you for your generous trade, sir. Your kindness shall not be disregarded.” Sensing Taran’s tension ease, she placed her hand on his shoulder. “We’d best join the others for evening meal.”

  The Pict king backed away from the warrior. Once out of danger, he grumbled under his breath. “I’ll remember his face and one day, give him a much needed lesson in manners.”

  ***

  The journey east to Pons Aelius passed quickly. Upon their arrival, Valeria wasn’t surprised when the Pict warriors told Taran they had neither seen nor heard of the bishop.
<
br />   They did, however, direct Taran to shelter for the night. A widow called Mistress Una who lived just outside the fort took in travelers. As they neared her roundhouse, she appeared none too friendly, facing Taran down with a loaded Roman crossbow.

  Sitting on his horse, Taran removed his helmet. His tangled red hair blew in the wind, making him look even fiercer than usual. “The sentries on the wall tell me ye make a fine stew and take in travelers.”

  A few kind words did nothing to endear her. “And why would ye be traveling with two women and a child when the ground’s still damp with the blood of Romans?”

  “These women have helped the Picts and wish to be reunited with a holy man.”

  Her eyes shot to Valeria along with her crossbow. Taran walked Blackie between them. “Mistress, please lower yer weapon. I wouldn’t want it to misfire.”

  Una took her time considering his request, glaring at the unlikely band of travelers. She pointed the weapon back at Taran. “What do ye aim to pay?”

  “I’ll give ye a piece of silver for each soul in me party. I’d say from the look of yer place, seven pieces of silver is near as much as ye see in a year.”

  She lowered her crossbow, a smile spreading across her face. “Well why didn’t ye tell me ye could pay in silver?”

  “Me mistake, Mistress.”

  The bow raised again. “But ye’ll pay in advance.”

  Taran dismounted and pushed the weapon down. “I do not much care to be staring down the shaft of an iron arrow. I’ll pay ye half now and half on the morrow.” He reached into his saddlebag and held out the coins.

  Her neck craned as she looked up at his enormous frame. Mouth gaping, she nodded her acceptance of the terms. “Come with me. Ye’ll be wanting to wash afore your evening meal.”

  She led them to a trough of water and pointed to a well-used rag nailed to a post.

  The accommodations of the one-room hovel were not much more comfortable than the abandoned roundhouse. She spread straw in front of the hearth to soften the hardwood boards beneath. Una also proved a decent cook, serving up ample servings of mutton stew.