Celtic Maid (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 2)

by Amy Jarecki

  Celtic Maid

  Honor ~ Loyalty ~ Duty ~ Freedom

  by

  Amy Jarecki

  Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series, Book Two

  Copyright © 2014, Amy Jarecki

  Celtic Maid

  Media > Books > Fiction > Romance Novels

  Keywords: historical romance, highlander, ancient world, roman, sexy warrior, Pict, forbidden love, steamy, Scottish romance, action adventure

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-62237-372-7

  Digital Release: December 2014

  Editor, Gabriela Lessa

  Cover Design by Calliope-Designs.com

  Stock art by Shutterstock.com and Thinkstockphotos.com

  All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  This edition is published by agreement with Turquoise Morning Press, a division of Turquoise Morning, LLC, PO Box 43958, Louisville, KY 40253-0958.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Other Books by Amy Jarecki

  ABOUT AMY JARECKI

  CELTIC MAID

  Can a loyal soldier of Rome follow his heart?

  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. As time passes, 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 allure…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.

  Chapter One

  During the Barbarian Conspiracy, the indigenous tribes of Britannia conquered and held Hadrian’s Wall for an entire year. Though the Romans were driven across the channel, their mighty armies would not be quelled for long. Emperor Valentinian appointed the ambitious Count Theodosius and his fearsome centurions to regain control across Britannia and once again maintain order across the eighty-mile wall that marked the very edge of the empire.

  Roman Britannia, the year of our Lord 368

  His muscles burned like bare feet in searing sand. Titus shook off his fatigue and swung his Roman short sword with practiced precision. The fearless warhorse beneath him thundered forward. To his left, he brandished his shield and defended a blow from a battleax, then sliced through the unprotected neck sinews of a rank barbarian to his right.

  Every inch of his body was splattered with blood and streaming sweat. He’d been fighting since dawn, and the prize was now in sight. Ahead, the walls of Vindolanda—his target—loomed. After a year of marching, fighting, and beating down the wretched savages, he would finally secure Hadrian’s Wall and establish his command post at Fort Vindolanda.

  “The enemy flees,” Bacchus boomed from the rear.

  With no oncoming attackers remaining to fight, Titus spun his horse toward his optio—his deputy and most trusted legionary. Bacchus pointed at the barbarians running for the trees. Exhaling, Titus lowered his sword.

  He scanned the horizon. Aside from a few skirmishes, the fighting had ended. His men either lay bleeding or hunched over supporting themselves on their knees, sucking in labored breaths. The stench of death sickened him, as did the sight of his loyal men lying cut open on the battlefield. “’Tis no time for rest. Tend to the wounded and secure the stronghold. No man standing shall lay his head down until the fortress is safeguarded to my satisfaction.”

  The early spring air cooled the fire raging beneath his skin. Titus motioned his head toward the enormous fort. Impressed with the grand expanse of sturdy Roman-built walls awash with lime, he sat a bit taller on his horse while pride swelled in his chest. He’d dedicated his life to the army. It was empowering to be there in the wild frontier of the empire, gazing at architecture of such magnificence it rivaled that of the great Aqueduct. This victory made the past year of relentless fighting worthwhile.

  Bacchus followed Titus through the splintered fortress gates. They rode through his new command post while Titus issued a barrage of orders, pointing out necessary repairs. The charred remains of barracks marked by hollow stone walls disgusted him. How quickly the savages have decimated Roman walls, erected by the blood and sweat of my predecessors. “Have the men tend to their quarters once security is established. A legionary must have a place to hang his helmet and rest his head.”

  “Yes, sir, but what of your quarters?” Bacchus gestured toward the commander’s house—door missing, orange shutters askew.

  “’Tis not our first priority.” Titus rode on to the next building, one in equal disarray. “I will inspect the principia anon.”

  He tied his horse and marched up the stone steps of his new headquarters, removing his helmet adorned with the red-and-white sideways horsehair crest that identified him as Primus Centurion. With a frown, he paraded through the interior of the principia, his gaze darting as he took inventory of broken furniture and filth. “The mongrels have plundered the silver and smashed what they couldn’t haul on their backs.”

  The sweaty black curls plastered to Bacchus’s head jostled with his nod. “The bastards occupied this place for but a year and look at it. They have no respect for fine Roman architecture.”

  “What did you expect? They live in hovels and have no discipline. I’m amazed the fort is not in worse condition. ’Tis a wonder they managed to conspire to overthrow Hadrian’s Wall at all.”

  “True. Fullofaudes must have been slack in his command.”

  Titus cared not for any disrespect given a Roman officer, no matter the circumstances. “I remember the Dux as a rugged general,” he said in a tone that allowed no further discussion. Bacchus nodded and said nothing.

  Titus tested a wooden chair for soundness and sat. “The barbarians did join together—and in a time of assumed peace. The uprising hit us across the entire Empire and many good men lost their lives.” He examined a gash on his forearm and shook off the sting—it could wait. “’Tis a good thing their infighting res
umed, else we may not have reclaimed the frontier so easily.”

  A page clamored into the office. “Sentries report the wall has come under Roman control from Arbeia to Houseteads, sir.”

  Titus leaned forward. “What of the west? Has Icarus secured Cavoran and beyond?”

  “I’ve received no news from the Centurion, sir.”

  “When word comes, ride to York and share the news with Count Theodosius.” The sentry turned to take his leave, but Titus stopped him. “Soldier, I expect you to return with a missive as to the timing of the count’s visit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With the man’s departure, Bacchus chuckled. “From the ease with which you took the wall, Theodosius will appoint you Dux Britanniarum, no doubt.”

  Titus’s stomach clamped into a ball. He would show no avarice in the presence of his optio. He scratched the stubble that had grown since the prior morning’s shave. “There are other men hungrier for the post than I, and they have the ear of the count.”

  “But you are the praefectus legionis—the Centurion Primus Pilus, not to mention the most highborn.”

  “True, though Dulcitius is a firstborn son of a general.” The truth was Titus salivated at the possibility of a promotion. Though the youngest son of Senator and former General Flavius Augustus Romulus, Titus was the strongest warrior and proved a better tactician than any other in the Twenty-second Legion, a fact exemplified by his assignment to take back the wall that marked the border of Roman Britannia. But he didn’t like men who coveted the glory of exalted rank and he would tolerate no such weakness in himself. He waved his hand dismissively. “Have you nothing to occupy yourself with? I did not get here by smacking my lips in anticipation of recognition. I am a loyal subject of the Empire and will carry out my duty no matter my rank.”

  Bacchus bowed. “I’ll see what stores remain in the granary, sir.”

  “Months of work lie ahead of us,” Titus called after him and then took a swig from his waterskin. With a guttural sigh, he hefted himself out of the chair and grabbed his wooden discipline stick. He’d worn the handle smooth on the mahogany bat he carried when moving amongst his legionaries.

  Titus marched through the fortress, discussing repairs with his men. He congratulated them on their success and reminded them that though the fighting might be at an end, the rebuilding would need their focused attention.

  Well after dark, he 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, Titus 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, and she made gasping noises with each shallow breath.

  “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, hiding her breasts, 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 domus.” 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 still sensed her fear.

  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, did the woman have no idea how enticing she’d appear to a battle-weary soldier? “You’re a local girl?”

  “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 as a man would. “If ye’d allow me to prove me worth, ye wouldn’t be sorry. And I’d be no trouble.”

  He smirked. “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 woman to hide in my chamber, even less 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 say it is nothing, then you should leave it be.”

  She l
ooked up. “Oh no, not when it comes to injuries. Ye’ll see.”

  Titus’s rebuke stopped at his lips. Confound it, no one ever back-talked to a centurion. 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 reasonable 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 saucy response, Titus sat in the lone wooden chair near the hearth. He held out his arm. “’Tis merely a scratch,” 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, a voice so soft and pure it stunned him. Soothing voice? Angelic face? Now I know I’m battle-weary—and I’ve been away from women far too long. Caesar’s bones, this girl is a barbarian savage. But her touch is so…nice.

  He closed his eyes and gave in to her ministrations. Although Titus didn’t recognize the melody, her song melted away the sting, and the tension in his shoulders eased. He imagined those deft fingers massaging his back. The picture was so visceral, he sighed and relaxed. With such a light touch, she could make any man succumb to her charm, even if she weren’t created in the image of Aphrodite. What harm was there in allowing her to tend him? In the past two weeks he’d fought harder and lost more sleep than ever before—all while Count Theodosius and his obsequious centurion, Dulcitius, reclined in steamy Roman baths in the south.