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

by Amy Jarecki

  This was not the time or the place for another confrontation with the woman. Nor did he want to argue with the archer who’d just saved his cohort heavy losses. “’Tis very nice, but you need a uniform,” Titus tried to keep his voice low. “We shall find a gown that makes you look like the goddess Athena, perhaps. She was a warrior of lore. The count will be amused with such a rendering.”

  “Athena?” She crossed her arms and jutted out that fine-boned chin. “I thought all Romans had embraced the god of the Christians.”

  He arched an eyebrow. Indeed, Elspeth was far more informed than he expected from any barbarian woman. “You are correct, but the folklore of the Greeks is still a part of our culture.”

  “Aye? Why should I have to play along with your travesty?”

  He leaned in so that only she could hear. “It will also show the men you are no ordinary wench. I fear your beauty has not gone unnoticed amidst the ranks.”

  Though he caught that now familiar spark of defiance in her eyes, she nodded and took charge of his stallion’s reins. She seemed to be adapting to her role as his servant after all. However, the inability to follow orders that had seemed so unnerving the night before had saved his life today. Elspeth could be a brave warrior one moment and an obedient maid the next, but now he knew the fire beneath her skin was there at all times. He was just no longer so certain it should be subdued.

  Trying to clear all thoughts of Elspeth from his mind, Titus slapped his discipline stick in his hand and strode into the courtyard to greet Artorius. “How goes the rebuilding effort?”

  “The men are up for the task, sir. The barracks have already been repaired. We need a bit of roof work and we’ll be on our way to restoring the fort to her original state.”

  They strolled up the principia steps and Titus surveyed the fort’s century of men in action, hauling lumber, pounding nails and setting posts. “Have you seen any skirmishes from the locals?”

  “None, sir.”

  Titus clasped his stick behind his back and held it with both hands. “We were attacked by a band of Saxons half-a-mile back. It would not surprise me if they lick their wounds and mount an attack on the fort.”

  “We’ll be ready, sir.”

  “Alert your sentries. We may have taken the wall, but the indigenous will be wanting blood. Never let your guard down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Entering the fortress headquarters, Titus inspected the interior with a frown. “This needs some attention. The principia should be pristine. When the count visits, I want him to see the pride you take in your fort, and that starts right here.”

  Artorius removed his helmet. “Yes, sir. I’ll make that a priority straight away.”

  “Good.” Titus took a seat across from a table sporting a map of Hadrian’s Wall.

  Artorius pulled out a chair across from him and sat. “What of the woman who rode in with you?”

  Titus clenched his jaw. “What of her?”

  “’Tis odd.”

  “Elspeth is skilled with weapons.” He’d quickly quash any raised brows. “I have employed her as an auxiliary servant.”

  Artorius scratched his chin. “A woman?”

  Titus shifted in his seat. “Yes, ’tis quite surprising, but I’ve found no better squire.”

  “’Tis unusual, though I can see the dual purpose.”

  Titus folded his arms. “I beg your pardon?”

  Artorius sat back in his chair. “A woman servant would not only tend to your weapons, she would be a fine morsel to keep your bed warm at night.”

  Titus slammed his fist on the table, and Artorius jumped. “You forget your station, decanus. You will not degrade the lady with your inappropriate discourse.”

  “Apologies, sir. I assumed….”

  “You were thinking with your cock, and I’ll not stand for that with one of my men, especially a decanus, a milecastle leader.”

  Artorius pursed his lips and gave a quick nod. “Yes, sir.”

  A sentry marched into the principia, breathing heavily. “I have a missive for the Primus Pilus Centurion.”

  Titus reached for the velum and unrolled the scroll. He recognized the flowing scrawl of his leader. Count Theodosius was to arrive within the week and had commissioned games to be held at Vindolanda. In his company would be Centurion Primus Ordo Dulcitius, the next in line for the Primus Pilus position. He was in charge of the forts south of Hadrian’s Wall. Dulcitius would bring his greatest chariot drivers and no doubt had already recruited gladiators from the local huntsmen.

  Titus crumpled the missive between his fists. Dulcitius would stop at nothing to make Titus look bad in the eyes of the count. They were both being considered for the coveted Dux Britanniarum position left vacant by the murdered Argus Fullofaudes. Dulcitius thirsted for power and vengeance as if he were the son of Hades.

  Titus tossed the scroll onto the table. With a host of milecastles to rebuild and eighty miles of barbarians to fend off, identifying game champions was the last thing on his mind. This circus would eat into his precious time.

  Titus stood and reached for his helmet. “I must leave at once.” He strode out of the principia and toward the stables where his men were chatting with Elspeth. “Mount up. We must make haste back to Vindolanda.”

  ****

  In the week that had passed, Elspeth saw little of Titus—he would return to his chamber late and rise before the sun. Clearly, he was so absorbed with preparations for the games he had no imminent plans to invade the north.

  On her next meeting with Greum at the cave—the fourth day of this dreaded week, she’d pleaded with him to allow her return to Dunpelder. Serving Titus was driving her insane. She was supposed to hate him, yet he continued to gaze upon her like a man would a woman, not a servant. It made her fear for her mission. How was she supposed to betray his every confidence when he turned her insides to molten honeyed mead? Besides, with the approaching games, there had been nothing of interest to report. She wasn’t gathering any useful information—and every time she saw him, no matter for how quick a moment, their eyes met and the heat between them intensified. And when they were apart, she felt more like a silly maid than a fierce warrior, and she feared she was more likely to do something stupid and disappoint her kin than become the hero she’d dreamed of being.

  But of course, she couldn’t say any of that to Greum. She’d simply told him she was wasting her time, but her brother had laughed it off and called her impatient, saying a few days without news were not enough to declare the mission a failure. After sharing a never-ending stream of stories about his and King Taran’s patience on their many missions, he’d insisted she remain at Vindolanda and continue with her charade—one that would eventually ensure Titus would hate her for an eternity.

  She’d come back from the cave dejected, not knowing her situation was about to grow worse. The next day, the centurion, her lord and master, had sent her to Jonas, the legionary tailor who appeared more female than male. He doted over Elspeth like a mother hen while measuring her for some untoward masterpiece.

  This morning, she ventured down the cobblestone path to Jonas’s workshop, a small room where tanned skins of leather and orange cloth for tunics piled high on a wooden table. Elspeth looked at the shelves that stored everything a soldier could need for his kit. Her gaze darted around the shop, trying to glimpse the garment Jonas had designed for her uniform. After all, she was a woman, scarcely human to a Roman soldier, and could not be enlisted into the army.

  Jonas greeted her with a broad smile and clasped both her hands while he kissed her on each cheek. “My dear, you will simply adore my creation for you.”

  Elspeth tried to pull her hands away, but he held tight. “I’m curious to see this masterpiece. You’ve toiled for two days, is it?”

  He pulled her into the center of the room. “You will be stunning. The centurion will not be able to take his eyes off you.”

  “I do not think he looks at me that way.”
<
br />   “Pardon me, but are you daft? I’ve traveled with Titus Augustus Romulus for nearly a decade, and never have I seen him gaze upon another woman so fondly. You are as pretty as a rose in full bloom. You have found favor with the centurion; he keeps you near him lest you be taken by another.”

  Elspeth grimaced. She certainly hoped that Jonas was wrong. Ardent advances from Titus would complicate her assignment even more—not that she’d encourage or react to him in any way. “Ye’re touched in the head. I tend his weapons and armor. Nothing else.”

  “Do you honestly believe he cannot tend those things for himself?”

  Elspeth rolled her eyes. “Focus yer mind on yer business and show me this creation.”

  Jonas dashed behind a screen and held up a mass of white silk that looked more like the silk curtains that shrouded Titus’s bed rather than a gown. The tailor turned in a circle, making the skirts billow. “You shall wear this chiton with a bronze collar and helmet.” He draped the chiton over the table and held up a wide metal collar that had the body of a snake inlaid around its outer edge.

  Elspeth sucked in a deep breath. “Ye expect me to wear that?”

  “Yes, of course. ’Tis just lacking the shield and spear.”

  She rubbed a piece of the thin white silk between her fingers. “I fail to see the practicality in wearing a bundle of sheer drapes. How am I supposed to ride me horse?”

  “I thought of that, too.” Jonas snatched up the gown and held out the skirt. “You see, the cloth is not sewn together. ’Tis designed to hang from the waist in six separate pieces.”

  Elspeth chewed on her bottom lip. “It’ll make me look like some sort of bleating fairy.”

  “I think not.” He shook his head. “The centurion’s instructions were that you must not look like a local woman. He made it clear he wanted me to design a gown to show the men you are no common wench.”

  She scrunched her nose and took a step back. “I’m no’ convinced that ye’ve captured his wishes with all that extravagant silk.”

  “’Tis quite Roman—in the style of the goddess Athena.” He held out the dress. “Try it on. I shall close the door so only I will see. I do not want all my hard work discarded before ’tis even sampled.”

  Elspeth snatched the mass of sheer cloth from his grasp and headed for the privacy of the curtain. “Very well, but if ye laugh, I’ll beat ye with me bare hands.”

  “Oh no, mistress.” Jonas rubbed his hands and emitted a nervous chuckle. “I would be the last person to laugh at one of my own creations.”

  Behind the screen, she stood in her smock and held out the dress, wondering exactly how she to put it on. After holding it up and turning it a half-dozen ways, she finally realized all the drapes of matching length must be part of the skirt. Pulling the garment over her shoulders, she flexed her arms. Unbelievable. The absurd gown had no sleeves, which was unconscionable given the cold spring nights—goodness, nights were chilly even in summer.

  With a huff, Elspeth examined the bronze collar, hinged at the side. She placed it upon her shoulders and fastened it at her left with a large swiveling hook and eye. The helmet was a work of art, bearing an owl on each side of the crown, crested by a plume of bright red-dyed horsehair.

  She pulled it over her locks and poked her head out from behind the screen. Jonas skittered toward her excitedly. “Come out and let me see.”

  His jaw dropped. “Athena be damned. That has got to be the most beautiful creation I have ever made.” He lifted up one of the drapes from her skirt and ran it between his fingers. “Working for the army, I never get to indulge in designing finer clothing.”

  Elspeth batted the material from his hand and smoothed her skirts. “I feel like I’m going to a Beltane gathering all done up in white silk. How am I supposed to keep this clean when I’m out chasing down a deer on the back of me mare?”

  “What?” Jonas clasped his hands under his chin with a look of pure terror. “I would expect no woman to be engaged in such unladylike behavior.”

  “A Roman woman, possibly, but I’m a barbaric warrior woman, ye ken.” She still couldn’t admit she was a Pict, and the Romans didn’t seem to discern between tribes. Barbaric was the most nondescript word she could think of.

  Jonas waived a dismissive hand through the air. “I have no idea what the centurion has planned for you, but this is the gown he described, and if you want to remain his servant, this is what you will wear.” He scooped up her blue dress and bounded toward the brazier. “And these filthy rags shall be burned.”

  Elspeth lunged forward, grabbed his arm and spun him around. She latched onto her Pict dress and pulled. “I shall keep me old dress with me things.”

  Jonas tugged back. “To the fire they’ll go.”

  “Not likely.” Elspeth yanked the dress out of his arms, drew back her fist and planted him square on the jaw.

  Jonas careened backward and fell against the table. Shaking himself off, he rubbed his face. “You hit me, you heathen. There was no need to for violence—”

  “Ye’re not burning me things.” Elspeth rolled her dress into a ball.

  “Ungrateful wretch. Be gone with you.” He motioned toward the door, still rubbing his jaw. “’Tis clear to me now why Rome believes the barbarians will never be tamed.”

  Clutching her gown like it was pure gold, Elspeth stomped back to her chamber. I will nay be wearing these white drapes for long. It wasn’t enough that she had to camp with the Romans, now they insisted on dressing her in a ridiculous frock of silk? She held out her leg and the fabric parted, revealing skin half way up her thigh. My kin will think me a harlot.

  ****

  Titus stood beside Bacchus while they watched the four newfound gladiators spar with wooden practice swords. Dressed in filthy rags, each man was a hulk of impressive proportions, though none showed much skill. Watching their heavy direct thrusts, Titus figured they survived purely by brute strength. “Where did you say you found these men?”

  “We rode to the local villages and announced a handsome purse for the victors.”

  “They stepped forward and volunteered?”

  “It only took a little coercing.” Bacchus smirked. “No self-respecting barbarian will stand idly by while an arrogant Roman questions his manhood.”

  Titus glowered at his optio. The huntsmen wore mismatched and ill-fitting practice gear. He pointed. “I do believe that man is wearing a Roman breastplate, though I’d hardly recognize it for the tarnish.” He turned to Bacchus. “Ensure they wear no pieces of Roman uniform. I’ll not have the army disrespected.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bacchus scratched his chin. “What about the chariot drivers?”

  “That is a different matter. They’re enlisted soldiers. Have them wear their uniforms with honor.”

  Bacchus bowed his head. “Very well, sir.”

  Titus looked up at the wisps of clouds sailing through the sky. “Our gladiators may fall, but I have every confidence in the skill of our charioteers. Dulcitius will have a difficult time finding challengers equal to the task.”

  “That he will, sir.” Bacchus returned his gaze to the sparing brutes. “And the lady’s archery demonstration will impress.”

  Titus arched his eyebrows—possibly his optio was beginning to accept Elspeth. “I hope Theodosius finds her skill diverting. One never knows what will strike that man’s fancy.”

  It was late when Titus retired to his chamber. Surprised Elspeth was not sitting beside the hearth waiting to tend his chainmail, he unclasped his sword and turned full circle. Was she ill? He crossed to her door and tapped. “Elspeth? Are you well?”

  “Go away.”

  Titus puzzled. His hand slipped to the door handle. “I’m coming in.”

  “No,” she shouted. “Stay out!”

  He hesitated, but mental images of Elspeth sick or bleeding to death spurred him forward. He barreled through the door and stopped short. Elspeth spun around. Pure white silken skirts billowed. She is radiant.
Titus’s heart skipped more than one beat. “Ah.” He took a step forward. “Jonas finished it.”

  Elspeth backed away. “Please do not expect me to be seen in this toggery.”

  Had she no idea how beautiful she looked? “Whatever do you mean? You are the vision of goddess Athena herself.”

  Elspeth crossed her arms low as if covering herself. “It reveals me legs when I walk.”

  “Hmm.” Titus beckoned with his palm. “Show me.”

  Shaking her head, she scooted away until her heels hit her pallet. “No. Ye cannot expect me to flaunt meself in front of ye.”

  Titus took in the fetching gown from neck to hem. The flowing drapes made her inordinately feminine. If only she could see it. He flicked his wrist impatiently. “How am I to make a judgment if all I see is exactly the gown I ordered?”

  Elspeth pursed her lips and stomped across the floor, glared at him, then whipped around and stomped back. “Ye see. I look like a tart.”

  From the fire ablaze in her eyes, she most definitely resembled Goddess Athena. And when her long, pure white legs escaped from the folds, the endless fire that plagued Titus’s groin made him lengthen with agonizing pain. He strode toward her and grasped a piece of flowing silk. “’Tis exactly what I wanted. How could you think it ill appropriate?”

  “As I said, it shows me legs and me arms are bare. ’Tis not practical for our chilly weather, even in summer.”

  Titus glanced down at his own bare thighs. “My legs are uncovered.”

  She slapped her hands to her hips. “I do not understand what’s wrong with me woolen dress. ’Tis practical and it covers me legs as well as me arms.” Oh, how her spirit could inflame him. Ever since the day she’d saved his life, he’d longed to see that fire behind her blue eyes again. Being this feisty, she either needed a firm hand on her buttocks or his cock buried inside her. But Titus could give her neither one. He had sworn he wouldn’t harm her in any way, and beside that vow he would stand if it killed him.

  Titus released the silken material from his grasp. “Count Theodosius will be here on the morrow.” He looked into her eyes, pulling upon every ounce of restraint to keep from claiming her mouth for his own. “It would please me if you would wear the chiton in his presence. I believe your archery demonstration will be the height of the games.”