Highlander's Sweet Promises

by Tarah Scott

  Trembling, Valeria fumbled with her dress. Taran stepped in and swept her fingers aside. Gently, he pulled the gown over her head. Watching her eyes, he unwrapped the mamillare from her breasts and with a flick of his fingers, released her subligar. He pulled her nude body into him, brushing her nipples against the tufts of copper hair on his chest.

  She gasped when his hard manhood tapped her belly. The fire of her own desires smoldered for him. She took charge and dropped to her knees, brushing her tongue along the rigid shaft she’d espied at the pond so long ago. Taran threw his head back and groaned, his hips rocking with pleasure.

  Valeria took him into her mouth and suckled him until his hands reached for her shoulders and pulled her up. “I do not want to spill me seed so quickly, wife.”

  Valeria couldn’t bring herself to speak. She tugged his hand and lay back. Pulling Taran over her, she guided him between her legs. “I need you so badly, I can wait no longer, husband.”

  He entered her slowly. Digging her fingers into his flesh, she showed him what she wanted, pulling him in and pushing out. He moaned in ecstasy. Every nerve ablaze, Valeria urged him deeper and faster, until together they released in a frenzy of shuddering euphoria.

  Three times they repeated their insatiable lovemaking. Before dawn, Taran kissed her forehead. “I must ask ye what is to be done with Mistress Morag.”

  Valeria sighed. “The woman reveled in my humiliation.”

  “I ken. I’ve paid her no mind since ye left for the wild.”

  “I’d be happy never to see her again.”

  “We could send her to Fife to serve Drust and Leda.”

  Valeria rose up on her elbow. “I think that would be best for all. Pia could take her place as the Dunpelder hall mistress—Morag would see it as lowering her status.”

  “I’ve had the same thoughts. Pia is good with herbs and knows the kitchen as well as Morag.”

  “Better in my opinion.”

  “Then it shall be done.”

  ***

  Valeria awoke with a start when Pia burst into her chamber. “’Tis your wedding day, my lady. Rise, for we have much to prepare.”

  Valeria stiffened. She slid her hand over the spot alongside her. Taran must have slipped out after she’d fallen asleep. She grinned and wrapped herself in a blanket, the fog in her brain clearing at once. “I do hope you have something marvelous planned to make my tresses presentable. I can hardly believe Taran isn’t waiting until it grows.”

  “When I’m done with you, no one will give a second thought to your hair. You shall be a vision of beauty, fit to be queen.”

  Pia ushered in a line of girls who carried the entire bridal ensemble, complete with urns of warm water for a luxurious bath. With an enormous grin stretching her rosy cheeks, Pia held up a crème colored dress. “This is what I’ve been working on since you left, my lady. ’Tis my wedding gift to you.”

  Valeria could not believe her eyes. Pia displayed a Pict gown, embroidered with ivory silk and beaded with rose-colored stones. Valeria grasped the fine-spun wool. “Wherever did you find these lovely beads?”

  “Seumas had them stowed away for a day just like this one. Said they were brought all the way from Scythia near a thousand year’ ago.”

  “Heavens, and he let you use them for my gown?”

  “’Tis not just any dress, my lady. It is the bridal gown of a queen. I can think of no better use for them.”

  After a full morning of bathing and primping, Valeria realized Pia had been right. She held up her mother’s hand mirror and looked at her reflection. Pia had secured a crème silk veil with a crown of white roses atop her head. Hints of curls peeked through the edges, framing her face delightfully. “Oh, Pia, everything is perfect. I never would have thought I could look this wonderful without my tresses. You truly are a miracle worker.”

  “I couldn’t allow the queen of the Picts to march down the aisle in her patchwork pigskin, now could I?”

  Valeria laughed. “That is one image I hope to soon forget.”

  Bishop Elusius stepped in with a light rap on the door. He offered his elbow. “May I escort you to your wedding my lady?”

  “Of course, father. I can think of no one better.”

  “You are a vision of loveliness, my child.”

  “Thank you.” She looped her arm through his. “And what have you been up to during my absence?”

  “Helping Pia with the herb garden, mostly.”

  “Have you thought about staying?”

  “I think not, my lady. When things settle, I must return to Rome.”

  “I shall miss you.”

  Patting her hand, he led her along the empty lane of Dunpelder. She peered through the shadows. “Where is everyone?”

  “Why…” He grinned. “They’re beyond the gates, assembled for the gathering of course.”

  As the stronghold portcullis creaked open, Valeria gasped. Nearly a thousand people lined the path. Muffled oo’s and ah’s resounded among the expectant faces. White tents speckled across the lea, though she scarcely noticed them. Down the rose-lined lane, a sole warrior stood under a canopy adorned with wildflowers. Valeria could not pull her eyes away from him.

  As she proceeded, no one existed except the redheaded Pict king, his mane of thick locks blowing in the wind. He posed as a statue, resting his hand on the hilt of his mammoth sword. His face was cleanly shaven, and his white tunic contrasted with his blue surcoat, adorned with a woad-dyed sash draped from his right shoulder to his left hip. Never in her life had Valeria seen a more imposing man. He would be hers for the rest of her life.

  When she reached Taran, the bishop placed her hand in his. “It is with joy in my heart I give you away.”

  “Ye are stunning, wife,” Taran whispered.

  The elder Engus officiated over the ceremony, this time spoken in Celtic. As Valeria gazed into the depths of her husband’s blue eyes, she still could not believe her fortune.

  Together they pledged their love and dedication to each other.

  Before the ceremony ended, Taran pressed his lips to her forehead. “I will love and honor ye until my last breath is taken upon this earth.”

  Then he inclined his chin and lowered his lids. Moving ever so slowly, he kissed her. The crowd erupted in shouts of jubilation. Cries of “long live King Taran and Queen Valeria” resounded across Gododdin and carried throughout the Pict nation.

  The End

  To my readers…

  You’ve just read Rescued by the Celtic Warrior! I hope you enjoyed it. I must share with you, I wrote this book some time ago. After I returned from my graduation ceremony at Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh, I had been overwhelmingly impressed with Scotland and amazed by the ruins along Hadrian’s wall. Though I have written many Scottish historical romance novels, this was my first!

  Next I wrote a sequel to Rescued by the Celtic Warrior, which features Elspeth, Greum’s sister and is slated to be released in December, 2014.

  Here’s the back cover copy of Celtic Maid:

  Primus Centurion Titus Augustus Romulus has fought tirelessly to reclaim Hadrian’s Wall from the clutches of the barbarians. Once his goal is achieved, he sets his sights on a long awaited advancement to lead the entire Roman province of Britannia. But when Elspeth stows away in his chamber, things begin to go awry. Gradually he uncovers the mysterious warrior woman’s talents…until she’s exposed as a Pict spy.

  Elspeth has been bred to hate Romans. Never would she allow her heart to betray her code of loyalty. But Titus’s stare raking across her body sends shivers over her skin. For a moment she loses herself in the rugged centurion’s gaze…until her world crumbles.

  Can an ardent soldier of Rome gain the courage to turn his back on his duty? Love versus honor clash as Titus battles all sides in a fight to uncover the truth, invoke justice and follow his heart.

  And an excerpt from Celtic Maid:

  Well after dark, Titus made it back to his quarters and fashi
oned a pallet of straw to sleep upon until he could obtain a bed—Bacchus would see to that soon. The glow from a fat-burning lamp made shadows dance across the walls. He unclasped the leather harness displaying the disk-shaped medals across his chest and abdomen and removed the heavy mail armor from atop his leather doublet. The doeskin clung to his chest like a glove. Titus sighed. It was rare for him to be this battle-worn.

  Movement in a far corner caught his eye. Fatigue forgotten, he snatched his sword from its scabbard in one swift motion. “Show yourself, thief.”

  He focused his gaze on the dark corner and closed in with caution, blood pulsing beneath his skin as it did before a fight. His vision adjusted to the dim light. A trembling figure crouched in the corner, the whites of his eyes round as marbles. “Come into the light before I run you through.” Sensing the boy’s fear, he lowered his sword slightly. “If you come forward now, I’ll not harm you.”

  Clothing rustled as the boy stood and sidestepped around him, moving into the glow of the lamp.

  Titus gasped. This was no boy. He narrowed his eyes. The maid’s hair flickered auburn with the light, her breathing quick. “Who. Are. You?” Titus over-pronounced so that she might understand his Latin.

  Her eyes darted toward the door. “I-I’ve been waiting for yer lordship.”

  He took a step closer. “You speak Latin?”

  “Aye. ’Tis not been long since Roman soldiers patrolled these lands.”

  “Why are you here?” Titus tilted his head and strengthened the grip on his sword. “What are you doing in my chamber?”

  “I’ve lost me family, me home’s been burned, everyone’s dead.” She wrung her hands. “I come to offer me services.”

  Titus relaxed his stance, raking his eyes across her body. He swallowed hard when his gaze met her breasts, full and round, supported by a tiny waist that curved out into delicious womanly hips. The corner of his mouth turned up. “Ah.”

  The woman clasped her arms around her shoulders. “I-I didn’t mean that. I could serve ye meals, make yer bed, wash yer clothes, clean yer quarters.”

  Heat burned his cheeks. Thank God the darkness hid his embarrassment at his misunderstanding. Titus had not enjoyed the pleasure of a woman beneath him since arriving in Britannia, and though he had not expected a female to appear in his chamber, the memory of soft flesh caressing his own heightened his primal awareness. He took a step forward and her scent pounced upon his senses with an unexpected twinge attacking his insides. A tall woman, she was only a few inches shorter than he.

  Titus cleared his throat and regained his authority. “What is your name, miss?”

  “Elspeth.”

  “I’m Titus Augustus Romulus, Primus Centurion of the Twenty-second Legion.”

  She swiped a strand of hair from her eyes. “I ken who ye are.”

  “You’re a local girl?” He felt awkward asking the obvious.

  “Aye.”

  “With no place to go? No family at all?”

  She took a deep breath and her eyes filled with pain. “None.” Her tone, barely audible, carried a sadness that tore out his heart. How the finer sex disarmed him.

  Titus sheathed his sword and took another step closer. Her eyes locked with his—the deep sapphire blue shimmering in the lamplight mesmerized him. She seemed so young compared to his one and thirty years. Though he sensed her fear, she smiled. Two dimples turned his knees to boneless mollusks. Elspeth’s blue woolen gown was plain, but the color in her cheeks made the maid’s delicate face spring from it like a rose from its thorny bush.

  He shook his head to regain his senses. “’Tis not—ah—’tis not proper for a lady to stow away in my chamber, lest be holed up in a Roman Fort.”

  She glanced downward with her frown. “I am sorry, m’lord. I knew not what to do. Please let me serve ye. I have nowhere to go.” Her gaze fixated on his arm and she gasped. “Ye’re injured.”

  “’Tis nothing.”

  “No. Yer wound needs tending.” She ran back to the dark corner and rummaged in a leather satchel. “I have a salve that will keep it from going putrid.”

  Titus stood with his fists on his hips and watched her. Elspeth scurried up to him with a look of authority that reminded him of his mother. “Are ye going to sit or do ye want me to tend ye standing there like ye’re going to recite a proclamation?”

  Completely disarmed by the dimpled grin that followed, Titus sat in the lone wooden chair near the hearth. He held out his arm. “’Tis merely a flesh wound.”

  Elspeth studied the gash and hissed. “’Tis deep, but I cannot see bone.” She removed the cork from a small stoneware pot and dipped in two fingers. “Ye’ll feel much better when I’m done.”

  Titus nodded and looked away. The salve stung, but the fingers that caressed him were as gentle as a feather brushing across his skin. She hummed a ballad, her voice cutting through the silence like a tiny bell. Her song melted away the sting and the heavy ache of his battle-worn muscles eased from his shoulders.

  Elspeth made quick work, tying a clean linen bandage around it. A hollow pall filled the room when her song ended. Titus could have lay back and listened to her forever. Her eyes met his when she finished. They remained connected for a moment and Titus sucked in a gasp. His face inches from hers, Elspeth’s beauty captivated him. He reached out and brushed his fingers across her silken cheek.

  “Ye see. I can tend ye.” Her voice was low, almost sultry.

  Titus swallowed and forced himself to stand. It was late. There was no place fitting within the fortress walls for her to bed down. To turn her out among a century of lustful soldiers would also be unconscionable.

  Groaning, he clapped his hands on his thighs. “Blast it all. Take my pallet. I shall sleep on my saddle blanket.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t put ye out, m’lord.”

  He held up a finger. “Not another word. I have been sleeping on it for a year, what is one more night? In the morning I will decide what is to be done with you.”

  Elspeth clasped her hands to her lips. “Oh thank ye, sir. I’ll make ye a fine breakfast. Ye’ll see me worth. Of that I am certain.”

  End of excerpt from Celtic Maid

  ABOUT AMY JARECKI

  Amy adores Scotland. Though she now resides in southwest Utah, she received her MBA from Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh. Winning multiple writing awards, she has focused on the genre of Scottish historical romance. Her favorite eras are the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries as well as the time of the Barbarian Conspiracy during the Roman occupation.

  Other books by Amy:

  Highland Force Series:

  Captured by the Pirate Laird

  The Highland Henchman

  Beauty and the Barbarian

  Return of the Highland Laird (A Highland Force Novella)

  Highland Dynasty Series:

  Knight in Highland Armor

  A Highland Knight’s Desire

  A Highland Knight to Remember

  Highland Knight of Rapture

  Celtic Maid, Another Roman ~ Pict Love Story

  Visit Amy’s web site:

  Heart of the Highlands:The Beast

  Protectors of the Crown Series:

  Book One

  April Holthaus

  Edited by: One More Time Editing, LLC

  Published by: Grey Eagle Publishing, LLC

  Cover Design by: Zak Kelleher

  Printed in the United States

  First Printing: July 2015

  ISBN-10: 1500615153

  ISBN-13: 978-1500615154

  All rights reserved.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © 2015 April Holthaus

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events or persons are purely coincidental. No part of this publication is allowed to be reproduced without the author’s written permission.

  Dedication

  To all of those who have
helped me improve my writing. Your insight and advice has helped me become a better writer! And thank you to those who support me by helping me spread the word about my books!

  To my husband for your love and support.

  To my son…I do all of this for you so you can have a bright future!

  Acknowledgments

  Janet Greaves, what would I do without you? Thank you very much for all of your help and insight and for being such an awesome person and friend!

  Denise Marie Stout Holcomb, thanks for being a part of the story and giving Keira her name!

  One More Time Editing, thank you for all that you do! I am very glad to have you as part of my team!

  Heart of the Highlands: The Beast

  Protectors of the Crown

  Chapter 1

  Scotland, 1537

  This was not her mother’s gown. Keira looked at her reflection in the mirror one last time. Standing still as if she posed for a portrait, the image she saw was as distorted as if created out of broken fragments of glass. She imagined this wedding would be more of a public affair than the simple wedding she’d always dreamt about.

  Instead of her mother’s white lace gown, she was draped in dark, red velvet with rich-colored gold trim and felt as if she were to be put on display like a trophy instead of a virgin bride. The waistline fit her snugly and the bodice had been laced so tight she could barely breathe. The skirt flared out like the wings of an eagle; so wide she wondered if she was even going to fit through the door. It was a dress fit for a queen, though she was nothing of the sort. On most days, she barely passed for a lady.