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

by Amy Jarecki

  Elspeth worked efficiently, 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 was even more radiant. He reached out and brushed a finger across her silken cheek. In that moment, the fighting, the taking of Vindolanda—everything he’d achieved in the past year—no longer seemed to matter. Something connected them, something he’d never sensed before. His blood thrummed a fierce pulse beneath his skin.

  When she blinked, he jerked his hand away. Hellfire, I need to sleep before I turn into a blubbering lunatic.

  She didn’t move.

  “Ye see. I can tend ye.” Her voice was low, almost sultry. Still holding his gaze, she stared at him expectantly.

  Titus swallowed and stood. 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 man 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 allow her to 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. Take my pallet. I shall sleep on my saddle blanket.”

  She placed a dainty hand over her mouth. “Oh no, I couldn’t turn ye out of yer bed, m’lord.”

  Back to being a shy, fearful maid, I see. How easily females can hop from one emotion to the next.

  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.”

  For the length of a heartbeat, he could see a fire flash in her eyes. But she said nothing and looked down again. Titus watched her a moment longer, trying to figure out what was it about this barbarian woman that made him so curious. He shook his head. He would have Bacchus find her a home on the morrow.

  ****

  Elspeth gathered her cloak around her shoulders, clenched her fists and forced back her angry tears. The sound of Titus’s breathing grated in her ears like the sharpening wheel in the blacksmith’s shop. The centurion was the enemy. She’d sooner shoot the dragon-hearted swine with an arrow than serve him. But the great King Taran had commanded her to spy. He had grasped Elspeth by the shoulders and told her the safety of the Picts rested upon her ability to gather information on the Roman’s plans to wage war against her people.

  Grasping her cloak tighter, Elspeth let out a small sigh of frustration. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to serve the king. It was an honor, a duty she would gladly perform to the best of her ability. After all, the men couldn’t spy because of the tattoos on their faces, and Elspeth was the best female warrior in Dunpelder. King Taran himself had said it when he’d chosen her. Her chest burned with pride at the memory. But that was precisely the problem—Elspeth was a warrior woman, an archer. Her face might not be tattooed like a Pict man’s, but she proudly bore the mark of her station with tattoos on her thighs. She’d earned her pair of matching archers serving the Picts. And now here she was, pleading her case as a maid to a filthy Roman. She clenched her teeth. Acting as a servant galled her. She would do it for her kin, but the sooner she returned to Dunpelder and resumed her place patrolling the wall-walk, the better.

  She rolled over on the pallet, considering her current situation. Though she’d been instructed to work in the kitchens, her sense of reason prevailed. What better way to garner information than to serve the centurion directly? It had been a clever move, she was certain of it. It would help her see this whole thing done much faster. She nodded once, reassuring herself that she could do this. ’Tis an honor to be recognized for me warrior abilities, and now I must prove meself worthy and uphold the four corners of the Pict creed—honor, loyalty, duty, freedom. Those words rang clear in her head until her frustration vanished. She vowed to live and die by them.

  Titus’s breathing took on the deep, rumbling cadence of sleep. Her body stiffened. When she’d first seen the centurion’s face, Elspeth had barely been able to breathe, shocked by his raw masculinity. His skin appeared tanned and fiercely etched, as if he’d seen years of battle. It wasn’t an old face, but one that exuded unquestionable command. One that could abduct a woman’s heart. Worse, the power reflected in his face amplified his robust form. He was a potent man indeed. Hewn of well-defined muscle, he’d no doubt earned the title of centurion through colossal acts of Roman barbarism.

  When he’d first entered the room, Elspeth had wanted to hate him, hate everything about him, but instead she’d hated herself for allowing a modicum of admiration. From her hiding place, she’d watched the dark, bold features, the square jaw that framed his stern countenance. Then she had gazed into his hawk-like hazel eyes. They’d pierced through her as if he’d already uncovered her ruse.

  Elspeth shuddered. What if he does uncover my secret? What will he do to me? She shouldn’t be there, resting on his pallet. Not only was it dangerous, it was not appropriate.

  She swallowed, unable to erase that first sight of him from her mind. It shamed her that she had not quashed her body’s reaction when he’d removed his chainmail. She should’ve been repulsed. And she was—repulsed by his position, by his allegiance, by his arrogance in thinking Britannia belonged to Rome, by how many local warriors he must have killed. Yes, she could and would hate the Primus Centurion.

  But the man sleeping now in that room? The man who’d undressed while she hid in the dark? The man who hadn’t tried to take her life or her virtue? Against her better judgment, she had to admit that man didn’t repel her. Ashamed or not, she couldn’t deny her body had been drawn to his. Why, she’d nearly moaned out loud with the force of her thundering heartbeat when his chainmail had hit the floor. The fine leather underneath had stretched taut against his muscled chest. Never had she seen such power in a man, and the legs beneath his thigh-length Roman tunic were as solid as forged iron.

  Why must such a fine specimen side with the enemy? Damn him to hell.

  Elspeth shook her head. No matter how attractive Titus seemed to the eye, she knew better. She would make her body react to reason. Never trust a Roman.

  His breathing was louder now, almost a snore, and she shuddered. She loathed sharing a room with a stranger—a man! She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that she was spending the night enclosed in the same space as someone of the opposite sex. It seemed so strange, so….

  She sighed. That, at least, was not something she could blame on the mission. If it hadn’t been for this task, she would’ve found herself sharing quarters with a man soon enough. At one-and-twenty, she knew her brother would be planning to arrange her marriage—a fact that endlessly ha
d her stomach twisted in knots. Elspeth was a warrior, a Pict, and with a bow she wielded unsurpassed accuracy, yet she would be wed just like every other lass in the region of Gododdin. How she wished she’d been born a lad like her elder brother, Greum. With her parents dead, she’d never learned the finer skills expected of a woman. She could stitch up wounds, but otherwise, sewing bored her mind into inertia. Now she’d let on that she could cook.

  I am a fool.

  The miserable centurion would probably take one taste of her fare and accuse her of poisoning him.

  Elspeth rolled onto her side. Och. What am I doing here?

  Chapter Two

  Rising before the sun, Elspeth slipped through the shadowed corridors. She tiptoed on bare feet, skirted out the door and hid behind a statue of some Roman emperor that loomed over the portico. The commander’s house was located beside the principia, one building from the granary where the Romans stored their food. Though it was only fifty paces away, her heart raced as if she were crossing a battlefield infiltrated by enemy legionaries. She felt naked without her bow and arrows, which she had hidden outside the fortress walls. And bloody Titus had taken her knife. Now she carried only a small dagger bound to the inside of her calf.

  If she were caught stealing food for the centurion, she’d be accused of being a thief. She’d be run through by a Roman soldier before she could tell him the food was for their commander.

  Still as the statue, Elspeth crouched and listened. No footsteps resounded upon the cobblestones. Movement above on the garrison wall caught her attention. A guard patrolled, but his eyes scanned the reaches beyond. Sucking in a deep breath, Elspeth sprinted for the shadows of the principia. After a few deep breaths, she crept forward, hugging the craggy stone bricks of the building, and then hunched behind a statue of Emperor Hadrian. She peered across the cobblestoned alley. The door to the granary stood open to a black abyss.

  Without a sound, she darted over the path and jutted her head through the doorway. Though she could see nothing, light snores from a guard echoed from within. His lamp must have burned out whilst he slumbered.

  Elspeth took only shallow breaths and allowed a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. From the stench, meat hung to her left, and she identified sacks of grain ahead. She tiptoed in, hefted up a sack of oats, reached for an onion and snatched a sheep’s liver from the butchering table.

  The legionary stirred. Elspeth’s heart shot to her throat. He grumbled something imperceptible, but she didn’t dare look his way. Her feet took over, and she dashed back to the commander’s house. Once on the portico, she stopped in the shadows and stole a backward glance. No one had seen her. Jaw set with determination, she slipped through the unhinged door and headed in to prepare a meal for her new master.

  ****

  A wafting stench roused Titus awake. Rubbing his eyes, he looked toward the hearth. Elspeth bent over his cooking pot, her hips swaying in time with her stirring. Watching the perfect shape of her bottom tightened the ache of his morning erection. He tore his gaze away and sniffed. Something smelled like shite. He cleared his throat and rubbed a hand across his nose. What shall I do with her?

  Titus clenched his teeth. His entire life he’d led men into battle, and he’d earned the exalted rank of Primus Centurion of the Twenty-second Legion. Count Theodosius trusted him to secure Hadrian’s Wall, and he had done so with swift and relentless fighting. Now that his mission had been accomplished, a distressed barbarian maiden occupied his private quarters, and he’d allowed it. He needed to get her out of his chamber quickly. Titus had no time to deal with a local orphan, even one as lovely as she.

  Elspeth glanced over her shoulder and straightened. With a ray of light beaming through the shutters, she was even more beautiful than he’d thought the night before—ivory skin, intelligent eyes, an oval face framed by waves of auburn that cascaded down to her waist like flames. The slender curves of her body reminded him of the statue of Aphrodite in Athens. A goddess I can do without. I’ve the Roman Army’s business to attend.

  He clenched his teeth against the tightening in his groin. Hellfire, he needed a cold bath—and Titus hated cold water.

  She smiled. “Ye’re awake.” Damn, those dimples could disarm him.

  “Yes.” He sat up, his cloak dropping to his waist. His chest bare, he glanced at Elspeth. She quickly averted her gaze. He watched her as he reached for his tunic. Her cheeks flushed crimson and his groin tightened again with a rush of heat hotter than a blue flame.

  Blast.

  He yanked the tunic over his head and focused on the stench coming from his cooking pot. “Whatever you have roiling over the fire is as unpleasant as a patch of skunk cabbage.”

  Elspeth offered a pitiful frown as if she was about to cry. “I snuck to the granary just so I could prepare some haggis to break yer fast.”

  “Ha-ggis, did you say?”

  “Aye.”

  Titus stood and sauntered over to the pot. Gritting his teeth against the stench, he leaned over and looked at the blood-red oozing mass of goo. “And exactly what, may I ask, is haggis?”

  “Usually, ’tis sheep’s entrails cooked in a sheep’s stomach with onions and oats, but I could not snatch all I needed from yer stores.” Her eyes lowered to the pot. “’Tis just the onions, oats and sheep’s liver, m’lord, but I’ll bet ’tis as fine as me ma’s. I oft watched her make it, I did.”

  “Watched her? Have you ever made this dish before?”

  “Ah…no, m’lord.” She held up the wooden cooking spoon. “Would ye like to try some?”

  Titus stepped back. “If it tastes as bad as it smells, I should drop dead within seconds of the concoction passing my lips.”

  Elspeth lifted the spoon to her lips and licked off a lump of goo, her eyes watching him. She swirled it in her mouth and swallowed. She pressed her petite hand to her lips and coughed. “See. ’Tis just like me ma’s.”

  With hopeful eyes, she lifted the spoon again. “Please, m’lord. I made it for ye. I must prove me worth.”

  Titus rolled his eyes. For a second, he recalled the fire in her eyes the night before and wondered if this wasn’t some sort of twisted revenge for him having taken her knife. But then he looked at those innocent blue eyes, and those dimples… How could he refuse one with as cherubic a countenance as she? He snatched the spoon and shoved it into his mouth.

  Mistake.

  The vile mixture slid across his tongue like the raw liver of a hog. The bitter pall made him involuntarily heave. He opened his mouth and spat the mass on the floor. “Caesar’s bones, are you trying to poison me? This rubbish tastes worse than it smells.”

  Elspeth bunched her fists under her chin. “I can make better. What would ye prefer, m’lord? Eggs? Porridge? Anything. Please, I’ll show ye me skill.”

  Titus looked down at his bare feet. “I am sorry, but the legion has cooks to prepare our meals. I’m afraid there is no place for you here.” He walked over and slipped into his sandals and bent to tie them. “I must head for the bath to wash the filth of war from my person. When I return, I shall have my optio, Bacchus, escort you to the nearest village and help you find employment.”

  When he swung his cloak around his shoulders, Titus couldn’t look at her face. Elspeth had already proven her disarming tactics, and the only way to assuage them was to avert his gaze. He headed for the bathhouse, which he sincerely hoped was in working order. It would be a priority with his men. Not a one had enjoyed a proper bath since leaving their post in Hispania near a year ago.

  ****

  Indeed, not only was the bathhouse working, the water had been heated to perfection. Titus returned refreshed and bid good morning to each legionary while he made his way back to his quarters. He must dress quickly. There was much to do in Vindolanda before he could set out to inspect the milecastles along Hadrian’s Wall. Soon he would visit all fortresses himself and issue orders for necessary repairs and control of the local indigenous. His mind rifled thr
ough innumerous responsibilities and tasks required to establish his own headquarters and see to the satisfactory organization of the troops.

  He stopped in the doorway to his chamber. The first thing that caught his eye was Elspeth’s hair. It glowed, shimmering copper in the sunlight that streaked in through the open shutters. The room had been tidied and swept spotless. She gestured toward the pallet. His armor lay atop, polished and looking like new.

  He blanched. His sword looked almost new, as if she’d cleansed the blade.

  Elspeth held up a stoneware pot. “Allow me to oil yer forearms, m’lord. It will highlight yer muscles and show the men the power beneath yer skin.”

  Without a word, Titus strode to the pallet and yanked up his sword. How dare the woman touch his weapon? She could ruin the grip with her oils. He slashed it through the air twice. The grip was unchanged. He examined the sword in a ray of sunlight and ran his thumb across the blade. His mere touch slit his finger.

  He turned to Elspeth and knit his brows. “How did you learn to care for weapons?”

  She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and bit her bottom lip. “Me father used to say a man’s sword is as important as his arms or legs and must be maintained as if yer life depended upon it.”

  “Your father was a wise man.” Titus bent down and slipped the sword into its scabbard. “What else did he teach you?”

  “Me da, um…” Elspeth’s alert eyes shot to the door and she wrung her hands as if uncomfortable with the question. “He was a brave warrior. Ah…I was his squire. I cared for his weapons and his horse.”

  She becomes more of a quandary by the moment. Stunningly beautiful, cannot cook worth a damn, knows how to care for weapons? This is no ordinary peasant. “’Tis unusual for a woman to assist a warrior, even if he is her father.”

  “Aye, but it is me strength.”

  “Unlike cooking.”

  Elspeth chuckled, her damned dimples attacking his resolve. “Aye. I need a bit more practice there.”