by Amy Jarecki
She lifted her skirts and swept across the chamber. “Taran, what are you doing here?”
Carefully closing the door without a sound, Taran turned and wrapped her in his arms. “I couldn’t rest my head without holding my wife in me arms.”
She placed her palm on his cheek. “Ah, Taran. You are so fine to me, but what if someone sees you?”
“What would they do about it? I’m the king. We’re to be wed on the morrow. You’ve become a Pict woman.” He lowered his voice. “My woman.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but Taran’s lips crushed over hers, muffling any objection. Heat radiated from the depths of her belly, igniting her entire body. Taran walked her to the straw mattress. Casting aside his surcoat, he stood back and untied the laces on his tunic. With a grin, he pulled it over his head. He stood completely naked in the candlelight, and his dark gaze studied her. “I need ye this night.”
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. “ʼTis 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. ʼTis 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?”
“ʼTis 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 tire
lessly 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 fashioned 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.
Sudden 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 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 long hair flickered auburn with the light, her breathing shallow.
“Who. Are. You?” Titus over-pronounced so that she might understand his Latin. She was pretty for a barbarian. He read the fear in her wide eyes—fear not so different than that on a face of a man when he realized he was about to be run through. But Titus would never raise a hand against a woman.
Her gaze darted toward the door. “I-I’ve been waiting for yer lordship.”
He took a step closer. “You speak Latin?” Odd.
“Aye.” She fingered the knife on her belt. “It has 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.” Is she… No. She couldn’t be—her face is too innocent.
The woman clasped her arms around her shoulders and stepped back. “I-I didn’t mean that.” A hint of defiance flickered in her eyes. “I could prepare ye meals, make yer bed, wash yer clothes, clean yer house.” She sounded a fair bit more self-assured than she had initially, though her arms remained tightly crossed. Even though she tried not to show it, he could see the fear still there.
Titus glanced away and swiped his hand over the back of his neck. “You’ve no cause to fear me.” He might be a Roman centurion, but one thing he could never abide was the mistreatment of a maid. True, he’d not enjoyed the pleasure of a woman beneath him since arriving in Britannia, but no matter how much the idea of a quick tumble with this comely lass appealed to him, he would never force her. He took a step forward and her scent pounced upon his senses with an unexpected jolt of lust. Hades’s fire. There was something feral in her scent—like a wildcat laced with jasmine. A tall woman, she was only a few inches shorter than he and built like a goddess.
Titus cleared his throat and forced himself to stare at her face. “What is your name?”
She dropped her arms to her sides and straightened. “Elspeth.”
“I’m Titus Augustus Romulus, Primus Centurion of the Twenty-second Legion.”
She swiped a strand of hair from her sultry eyes. “I ken who ye are.”
Caesar’s bones, the woman had been sent to torture him. “You’re a local girl?” He felt awkward asking the obvious.
“Aye.”
“With no place to go? No family at all?” The last thing he needed to deal with was an orphan. Why didn’t Bacchus stop her before she reached the commander’s quarters, and where is my miserable optio now?
She took a deep breath and her eyes welled with tears. Bloody hell, she’d better not cry.
“None.” Her tone, barely audible, carried a sadness that tore out his heart. But she squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye just like a man would. “If you’d allow me to prove my worth, you wouldn’t be sorry. And I’d be no trouble.”
“I doubt that.”
Titus sheathed his sword and took another step closer, resisting the ever stronger scent of jasmine. Her eyes locked with his. The deep sapphire blue shimmering in the lamplight could mesmerize a marble statue of Adonis. She seemed so young compared to his one and thirty years. She smiled. Two dimples turned his knees to blasted boneless mollusks. Elspeth’s blue woolen gown was plain, but the color in her cheeks made the maid’s delicate face spring from the dress like a rose from its thorny bush.
He shoved his hands over his shortly cropped hair. “’Tis not—ah—’tis not proper for a lady to hide in my chamber, lest be holed up in a Roman Fort.”
She glanced downward with a frown. “Apologies, m’lord. I knew not what to do. Please let me serve ye. I have nowhere to go.” Her gaze fell to 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.”
“Bloody hell, the first thing you need to learn is obedience. If I said it is nothing, then you should leave it be.”
She looked up. “Oh no, not when it comes to injuries. Ye’ll see.”
Titus tried to hide his surprise at her boldness. The woman shifted from fearing for her life to a bossy wench in the blink of an eye. He glanced toward the door, knowing full well Bacchus would be snoring on his pallet by now. With no option but to humor her, Titus moved his fists to his hips and waited. Elspeth scurried up to him with a look of authority that reminded him of his mother. She grinned with those damned dimples. “Are ye going to sit or do ye want me to tend ye standing there like ye’re planning to recite a proclamation?”
Completely disarmed by her humorously disrespectful response, Titus sat in the lone wooden chair near the hearth. He held out his arm. “’Tis merely a flesh wound,” he grumbled.
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 the wound. A hollow pall filled the room when her song ended. Titus could have lain back and listened to her sing forever. Her eyes met his when she finished. They remained connected for a moment and Titus sucked in a gasp. Now that his face was inches from hers, Elspeth’s beauty captivated him. He reached out and brushed his fingers across her silken cheek, immedia
tely pulling back when he felt her tremble and realized the impropriety of his gesture. She didn’t move.
“Ye see. I can tend ye.” Her voice was low, almost sultry. She looked up and stared at him expectantly.
Titus swallowed and forced himself to stand. It was late. If he turned her out, she’d be pounced upon by a mob of lustful, drunken legionaries. Something deep inside him twisted. Yes, this was a barbarian lass, the enemy, but something in his blood demanded he protect her. No one would be forcing himself on her—not if Titus had a say in it, and most especially not under his watch.
Vindolanda was a burnt out shell and his domus had suffered the worst of the looting. The fortress needed days—weeks of repairs. There was no place fitting within the walls for her to bed down. To turn his back on her plight would be unconscionable. If I let her stay, I’ll only be performing my duty as a Christian. ’Tis how any loyal Roman subject should act. That is all.
Groaning, he clapped his hands on his thighs. “Blast it all. Take my pallet. I shall sleep on my saddle blanket.”
She placed a dainty hand over her mouth. Back to being a shy, fearful maid, I see. How many sides are there to this woman? “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.” His gaze fell to the knife in her belt. He held out his hand. “But I’ll take your blade first.”
Her eyes narrowed with the thin line of her lips. “If I give it to you, I’ll have no means to protect meself.”
“If I were going to harm you, you’d already be dead.” He spread his fingers demanding the knife. Titus didn’t rise to the post of centurion by being gullible. “I shall return it in the morn.”
Elspeth slowly removed the dagger with its scabbard, her jaw set. “And I’d not have tended yer wound had I wanted to cut yer throat.”
He snatched the weapon. She mightn’t be as helpless as she’d made out. After all, to slip into his chamber, she’d somehow made it through an entire contingent of men. He took a step back. “Unfortunately, in times of war, a soldier needs to take precautions.”
