by Tarah Scott
“That deceitful man. I wish I’d never thought to trust him.”
“How could you know he would act as a tyrant? He’s one of your blessed Picts. Are they not supposed to follow the creed of duty and loyalty to the king?”
“Yes. Morgon’s no Pict. When he is found out, Taran will have his head.”
“We could both be dead by then.” Elusius pointed toward her concealed weapon. “When the time is right we must make our move.”
“’Tis a sin to take a man’s life.”
“’Tis a sin to covet your neighbor’s possession, to lie, to cheat. I believe Master Morgon has more to atone for than both of us put together. We are in a war, my lady. And in war, unchristian behavior is necessary.”
Valeria ground her teeth. She’d killed once. She could do it again.
***
Morgon tossed back a draft of mead obtained from a local farmer. It wasn’t potent like the spirit they brewed in Katica, but it did the job. Raibeart lounged on a wooden chair with his feet on the table, nursing a mug of the same rotgut. “What if they find out she’s alive?”
“They won’t. Besides, I’m doing him a favor. His mind needs to be on Pict business. The sooner our blessed king moves his arse back to Dunpelder and focuses on his duties, the sooner he’ll forget about the Roman wench.”
“What are ye planning to do with her?”
Morgon chuckled, pouring himself another tankard. “I’ll use her until there’s nothing left. Then I’ll slit her throat and watch her life drain into the earth.”
He frowned at his friend’s cynical grin. “’Tis a waste.”
Morgon slammed his fist on the table making Raibeart jolt from his perch, spilling mead down his surcoat. “She’s a Roman. They’re the enemy. Never forget it.”
“Aye, but she wants to become a Pict.”
“That’s what she bloody says.”
***
Greum watched Taran blast past the gate. His stomach was so tied in knots he could puke. Somehow, he felt personally responsible for Valeria’s death. If he’d only listened to Taran and tied him to his horse, they would have kept going and she might have lived. Valeria dead? He couldn’t believe it. It hardly seemed real the vivacious young woman would succumb so quickly and easily. And what happened to the bishop? Was he buried in the grave with Quintus? Did Valeria dig the grave by herself? Did Quintus kill the bishop, and Valeria Quintus?
Everything seemed so unreal. Taran was nearly killed himself. Was it all for naught?
Hanging his head, Greum walked his horse to the stable. Three stalls in, he saw Mia. The horse nickered when she smelled him and he reached up and patted her long, slender neck. He’d never seen a finer specimen in all of Pictdom. “Ye’ll be needing a new lady, I’m afraid. Ye’re a beautiful fine-boned filly, just like Valeria.” Mia shook her head at the sound of her owner’s name. Greum looked into the horse’s intelligent eye. “You understood me?” He repeated, “Valeria.”
The horse shook her head with more agitation and stomped her hoof. “What are ye trying to tell me, girl?”
Greum puzzled and climbed into the loft.
It was late night when Taran appeared at Greum’s camp. He’d mustered up hay enough for them both in the loft since it was the only place not charred from the fires of war. Taran knew where to find him.
“Vindolanda brings back too many bad memories.”
“Aye.” Taran kicked the hay into a pile. Tossing his saddle down, he reclined. It wasn’t a relaxing position like one would affect before sleep. He rested his elbow on his saddle, his shoulders tense, with a vacant, hard look about him. “We’ll leave in the morning.”
Greum knew to keep his mouth shut. He let out a long sigh at the prospect of heading home. Taran could use some of Morag’s healing essences, and they both could stand some much needed normalcy.
He stood and looked out the window. The moon shone bright. He could see across all of Vindolanda. One structure caught his attention further deepening his mood. Jaw clenched, Greum marched over and pulled a torch from the wall.
“Where are ye heading off to?” Taran asked.
“There’s one thing I must do.”
“Aye?”
“Set fire to that abominable gaol.”
***
The sound of feet crunching on the gravel beside the window roused Valeria from sleep. Light flashed and grumbling words came from above. “To hell with ye and all who would incarcerate any innocent man.”
Valeria thought she recognized the voice, but she had barely rolled from her bed of straw when a torch sailed through the window, landing beside her. She sprung to her feet, screaming, “Help! Bishop. Wake up. My cell is burning!”
Valeria pushed herself against the iron bars as the flame quickly ignited the straw upon which she had just been sleeping.
The bishop shot up in a coughing cacophony. “Use. Your. Dress.” His voice broke with a wracking cough. “Put out…the flames!”
Valeria looked at the man with horror, but saw no other option. The smoke stung her lungs. She tore off her dress. Holding the ragged fabric in both hands she batted at the leaping flames, screeching for help, coughing and sputtering. Her eyes burned as she worked to douse the fire. With each thrust, the flames would ebb and leap out again as she recoiled for another downward blow.
Vaguely, she was aware of footsteps clamoring down the gaol stairs. She prayed someone would free her before the fire consumed the cell and everything in it.
***
Taran couldn’t make out the words, but he did not mistake the female voice that carried on the wind. He sprung to his feet. Ignoring the ladder, he hurled himself to the dirt below the loft. He landed with a deep-seated grunt, but the stabbing pain in his side only propelled him to move faster.
He raced through the dark. His toe caught on a cobblestone and hurled him stumbling across the pavement, but his legs refused to stop running. Stretching out, he caught himself inches before his chin scraped the stony surface.
Smoke billowed from the gaol entrance, urgent voices shouted from the depths below. Taran’s feet scarcely hit the steps. His lungs burned as he charged deeper. Fear seized his gut. Was he too late?
As he rounded the last step, his eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light. Valeria, clad only in her subligar loincloth and thin mamillare around her breasts, franticly beat the flames back with her dress. The Pict guard fumbled with the heavy keys. Greum shoved him aside. Wielding a battle axe over his head, he slammed it against the lock.
Taran rushed ahead and shoved through the gaol door.
Valeria hadn’t seen him, as she continued to beat down the rising flames.
“Valeria!” He didn’t wait for her to turn. Scooping her into his arms, he raced for the stairs. He could hear the bishop’s voice bellowing orders to open his cell. Taran knew Greum would take care of the old man. His chest swelled, his woman in his arms, Taran could only think of taking Valeria to safety. He held her so close, intent she would never see danger again.
With her hands tightly wrapped around Taran’s neck, Valeria pressed her face into his shoulder and wept. “Taran. Taran. Taran, you’re here. I thought…I…I was going to burn.”
“You’re safe now, lass. I’ll protect ye.”
“I look a fright. My eye is bruised.”
“Ye look like a goddess,” he growled into her hair.
Once sheltered in the barn, away from the curious eyes peering from the barracks, Taran carried her to the ladder. Cradling her against his chest, he lowered his lips and kissed her forehead. Through the pall of the gaol odor and smoke, he could smell her, a honeyed womanly scent driving him wild.
Valeria’s body shook. He held her close with one arm and climbed the ladder. He wanted to hold her in privacy. Only moments ago he’d thought her dead. His own emotions threatened to overpower him as he stepped into the loft. He clenched his teeth against threatening tears.
Taran gently reclined upon the hay and leaned again
st his saddle. With Valeria cradled in his lap, he rocked her gently. “Morgon told me ye were dead.”
Valeria’s head shot up. “M-Morgon? He’s a perjurer. A-a deceitful man.”
Taran drew her head against his chest and pressed his lips to her hair. “Aye, and I will see him to his grave.”
Valeria strengthened her grip around his neck. “Oh no. You cannot leave me.”
“I will not leave ye now, I promise. But on the morrow, there will be a reckoning.”
Valeria’s tears wet Taran’s tunic. He continued to rock her. He could not release his hold of this beautiful and strong woman. He was torn by relief to find her alive, fury for the man who deceived them both and the burning desire to lay her down and stake his claim once and for all.
Valeria began to quiet while she inhaled deeply. Taran showered her face with gentle kisses. She lifted her chin and he kissed each eye, each cheek, his mouth sliding over hers. Sweet as honeysuckle on a summer’s morning, her taste lured his desire and attacked his groin with full force.
Valeria kissed him passionately, her mouth yielding to him, searching, pulling him closer. She moved her hips against his groin and a deep groan erupted from his throat. He tried to gently move her back away from him, but she held him fast, jutting her soft buttocks against him. “Valeria. I cannot…”
“I have chosen you. We may not be wed by law, but we are wed in spirit. It is time we make it so.”
Taran tilted his chin back and looked at her lovely face, highlighted blue by the moon. “Do ye ken what ye’re saying? There could be a child. The Pict…”
“I know.”
She reached back and began to unwrap the mamillare binding her breasts. With trembling hands, Taran caught the fabric and slid the remaining cover from her body. Full, milky white breasts rose and fell with her shuddering breaths. Perfectly shaped, nipples erect, they tempted him. He inhaled deeply, his cock instantly hard as an iron post.
Valeria stood and slid her subligar from her hips, revealing tight black curls concealing her sex.
Taran swallowed, placing his hands on her flawless hips. “Ye’re more beautiful than anything I could have ever imagined.” He ran his hand across her lean belly and brushed the soft curls with his thumb. “Part yer legs for me.”
Valeria did as he requested and he slid his hand to her sacred spot. Her eyes held his gaze as a sharp gasp caught in her throat. She was hot and wet, and the mere touch of her sent his mind into a maelstrom of desire. Valeria moaned, her hips arching back.
“I want you so much my knees are weak,” she breathlessly whispered.
She pulled Taran to his feet and frantically helped him open the laces of his tunic. Seeing his bandages, she stepped back. “Oh my, you’re injured.”
He grasped her shoulders and pulled her against him. “’Tis nothing that won’t heal with yer love. Now come here.”
She fumbled, tugging at his surcoat, but he reached across with one hand, and it dropped easily to the floor. He slipped the linen tunic over his head and cast it aside. Before her, he stood completely naked.
Valeria’s lips parted with a ragged inhale.
Slowly she reached out and wrapped her fingers around his erect manhood. “You too are beautiful.”
Taran threw back his head and moaned. He grasped her shoulders and pulled her closer, his mouth over hers. He was afraid he’d been too rough, but Valeria matched his passion. He wanted to draw out this moment, make it last forever, but with every subtle movement of her body, he came closer to spilling.
Smiling, she lay upon the bed of straw. “I want you.”
He took a step back, drinking in the most ravishing sight he’d ever beheld. He couldn’t believe this was finally happening. “I cannot hurt ye.”
“It will be done, and you will be mine. Come down to me.” Valeria touched her thigh and pulled her legs open. Taran gasped at the erotic vision her slight movement made.
He knelt over her, supporting his weight on his hands as he leaned in and kissed her beckoning lips. Valeria’s hands explored his body. Taran’s mouth covered her breast, muffling the moan that erupted from the depths of his soul. She sighed with pleasure, her hand again slipping to his cock. She gently stroked him.
A feral groan growled through his throat. “I want you so much, me seed will spill.”
Her lips parted, Valeria reclined back and guided him toward her sex. Taran clenched his teeth. He wanted to thrust the head of his cock deep inside her and ride her like a stallion rides a mare, but he must make it good for her. He slowly inched forward, and it took every ounce of his self-control to stop when the head of his cock barely entered her. Biting his lip, he tried to hold still as her tiny body adjusted to his size.
She gasped.
He froze. “Are ye hurt?”
“’Tis all right.” Valeria’s hands latched onto his buttocks and encouraged him in. Taran let her govern the pace as she rocked her hips back-and-fourth. She began to move faster, her breathing intensifying. He could no longer resist the fire that burned below, his hips thrusting, out of control. He worked her into the straw, Valeria’s own passion erupted through her throat. Her sex convulsed around him. With a deep bellow his seed burst into her, filling her womb.
Panting, Taran lay over her, showering her with kisses. “Are ye sore, my love?”
Valeria chuckled seductively, making his insides ping with renewed desire. “My soreness is overshadowed by rapture. Never in my life could I have imagined how amazing that felt.”
He rolled to his side and cradled her against his chest. “I wanted it to be good for ye, but I could not hold back for long.”
“’Twas perfect. We are perfect.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Taran woke to the call of a willow warbler. Completely naked, he watched Valeria slumber, her head on his shoulder as she curled against him. They had made love repeatedly through the night. He still could not believe it had happened.
He marveled at her raw beauty—her skin as smooth and creamy as fine-spun silk. Her breasts were round and proud with nipples of rose. Her tiny waist curved into the hips he so often had wanted to touch on those nights when he’d slept beside her under Pia’s watchful gaze.
Taran could have lain there forever, but there were two things he must do. The first was unsavory, but necessary. He would face Morgon before he traveled to the dressmaker’s roundhouse.
Gingerly, Taran tugged on his surcoat, careful to avoid disturbing his wound. Moving to the window to inspect the gash, he realized the night’s activities had opened it up. A crust of blood stained his hip. He needed fresh bandages, for he didn’t want Morgon to catch sight of his weakness. Taran draped his tunic over Valeria. Though it was dirty, she would at least have something with which to cover herself when she awoke.
When he climbed down the ladder, Greum jumped up to greet him.
“Have ye been here all night?” Taran asked.
“Aye, I didn’t want to intrude on you and the lassie.” Greum flashed him a wink and nodded his head toward the guard sleeping on the other side of the ladder. “Sim there told me a few unsavory things about Master Morgon.”
Taran glanced at the guard who started to rouse. Once his eyes opened, he lumbered to his feet, flustered yet alert. “King Taran, Simian, son of Taog at yer service.”
Taran nodded. “Thank ye, lad. What news of Morgon?”
“He’s no Pict leader. He’s raiding the Roman coffers—keeping the loot for himself and that motherless sucking swine, Raibeart. He told me to starve the lady and the holy man to weaken their resolve, but I took them food. The lady was so lovely, and half-starved to begin with. I couldn’t very well sit back and let him treat her worse than a dog—especially knowing she was under yer protection, sire.”
Taran nodded. “I thank ye.”
Sim’s gaze trailed from Taran’s face and settled on the gash in his side. “My oath, sire, what happened to ye?”
“We ran into a band of Saxons.�
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Greum leaned against the ladder. “They turned their giant loose on him, but Taran killed the bastard. Twenty-one hands he was.”
Sim gaped, his eyes practically bugging out of his head. “Bloody oath.”
They were wasting precious time. “I need a tunic and some clean bandages. Then we’ll face Morgon. Can ye find that for me?”
The stout man nodded and headed for the door.
“Sim?” Taran stopped him.
“Aye?”
“Say nothing about this.”
He tapped his fingers to his mouth. “Ye have me word.”
Taran turned to Greum and lowered his voice. “Can he be trusted?”
“Aye. He believes Morgon to be lower than a Roman soldier. He also said there are many others who feel the same.”
“Good. We’ll have support if this escalates into a battle.” Taran moved to the trough and splashed water on his face. “Where’s the bishop?”
“He’s sleeping in an empty stall down the back.” Greum flashed a lopsided grin. “I didn’t want him to hear the carry-ons coming from the loft.”
Taran tried not to smile. “Ta.”
“It was time.”
“Yes it was.”
Greum chuckled. “I’m glad ye agreed with me for once.”
Sim returned with a roll of bandages and a tunic Taran hoped would fit across his chest.
Greum reached for the bandages and studied Taran’s wound. “It’s been weeping, but that’s a good sign. No infection.”
Greum pressed his fingers above the gash.
Taran grunted. “Just bind it up and be done.”
He pulled the tunic on and loosely tied the laces at the neckline. It was snug around his chest, but would have to do. He fastened Seumas’s sword low around his hips to avoid aggravating the wound. “Simian, can ye gather the Pict men who honor our creed?”
“Aye, sire.”
“Move quickly.” Taran clasped Simian’s fist against his chest. “Ye are a true Pict, and yer courage will nay go unrecognized.”
