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

by Amy Jarecki

  She hesitated with a glint of resistance in her eyes. “Why do ye have to look at me like that?” He ignored her question, unable to pull his gaze away from her defiant stare. A tsk escaped from her tongue as she glanced away. She touched the silk, looking defeated. “If it pleases ye,” she said with a groan.

  He grasped her shoulders, leaned forward and kissed her forehead as he would a dear one. The feral jasmine scent of her hair dragged him to the ragged edge. Before he could think, Titus encased her in his arms. Gasping, Elspeth raised her chin. “I….”

  Losing control, he covered her bow-shaped lips with his. Tasting the ambrosia of her yielding mouth, he gave in to the passion consuming him. Closing his eyes, he ravished her with his lips, his tongue swirling, unable to taste enough of her. Elspeth melted into his arms, moaning into his mouth, her sensuous voice reverberating through his chest. He hugged her body tighter, his skin sizzling where the soft swells of her breasts pressed against him. Titus could think of nothing but his need to taste her more deeply.

  With a gasp, Elspeth jerked her head back. “I cannot.”

  His lust shattering, Titus pulled away. “Why? Are you promised?”

  She clutched her fists beneath her chin, as if she were suddenly afraid of him. “No, m’lord.”

  “Forgive me.” The fear reflected in her eyes made his heart squeeze. “I shouldn’t have….”

  She took a step back. “There ye stand in yer highborn finery. Though I am a simple maid, I aim to keep me virtue intact.”

  Ashamed, Titus dropped his hands to his sides. At one-and-thirty, he had enjoyed pleasuring many women in his lifetime, but he would never force himself upon one who was unwilling. He sighed, well aware that any relationship with Elspeth could not become serious, nor could he make her empty promises. As his servant, he must respect her virtue and cast his ardent feelings aside.

  He backed toward his chamber. “Apologies.” He grasped the door handle and jutted out his chest. “I will see you in that gown on the morrow,” he said with more conviction than he felt. If she couldn’t be his, he must treat her like he would any other servant. It would be best for them both.

  As the door slammed, the last thing Titus saw was raging fury spread across Elspeth’s face. For a moment, he thought she hated him. His heart twisted. Had he misread her? He had given the girl work, food, a safe place to sleep. Was that indeed all she wanted from him and nothing more? But she kissed me back. He touched his hand to his lips, Elspeth’s taste lingering.

  A loud clank pummeled the door. Her helmet? Titus raked his fingers through his hair. What internal battle warred inside the woman? He knew she was attracted to him—he sensed it every time their gazes collided from across the room. But perhaps their current situation was beyond repair.

  Chapter Five

  Elspeth yanked off her helmet and threw it at the door. The resounding clatter gave her no satisfaction. The helm was the only useful item of the entire ensemble, but she left it where it lay. It had been hewn by Roman hands. She unclasped the heavy collar and dropped it on the floor, yanking the frilly drapes from her shoulders.

  She spun to the pallet and pulled the grey woolen blanket over her shoulders. How dare he entice me with his fiercely handsome looks? Elspeth swiped her hand across her lips. They still tingled from the sensation of his mouth pressing against hers. How could she erase his kiss from her mind? Never before had a man made such advances.

  Her body had completely betrayed her. Her legs had turned to boneless limbs, she could think of nothing but how much she wanted his hands upon her. It had taken every bit of willpower she could muster to pull away. She could not allow herself to be affected by such frivolous emotions. Soon she would return to Dunpelder, and when Titus realized she had infiltrated his headquarters as a spy, he would detest her very memory.

  He’d hate her. The thought made her insides twist into a sickly knot, but she had to stand firm on her convictions. If she allowed her feelings to take over and her kin discovered her betrayal, her brother would kill Titus, and then he’d lock her away in Dunpelder’s tower, never to be released. She groaned. All the time she’d spent polishing and cleaning, she’d imagined what it would be like if the lines that made Romans enemies with Picts disappeared. Then she wouldn’t feel guilty about holding Titus in her arms and kissing him—about how much she wanted him. What it would be like if she could strip away the uniform and gaze upon the man—the powerful arms, the well-muscled chest—a man who could protect her with one swing of his sword? A man who could make her soar to the heavens with a single kiss.

  Elspeth slammed her fist into her pillow. However colorful her dreams, it was hopeless. This infatuation wasn’t real. It could never be real.

  Blast King Taran for sending me on this mission and blast Queen Valeria for training me in the ways of the Roman army. She thought of the first of many lies she had told Titus in such a short amount of time. Her father hadn’t taught her to care for Roman weapons. Queen Valeria had. Before becoming a Pict, the queen had been the daughter of the former Dux Britanniarum, Argus Fullofaudes himself. At the time, it had seemed like such a grand idea. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Aye, she’d wanted to serve her king, but never had she thought it would be so difficult. If only Titus were fat and ugly and brutish—and his kiss didn’t make her head swoon like she was floating in the clouds with the fairies.

  Elspeth closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep, but her mind raced. Giving an archery demonstration for the count? What questions would that bring? When would the Romans realize she was a Pict? Would they care? Her new gown all but revealed the Pictish tattoos on her thighs. This new legion from Rome seemed to put all the tribes in one class, considering the lot barbarians. But Queen Valeria had mentioned that both her father and the bishop who had traveled with her had been able to recognize Pict men by their tattoos. Worse, they had considered her kin particularly untamable. Did Titus know about their distinguishable blue woad too? Would it make a difference to him?

  She rolled to her side and squeezed her eyes closed. Titus’s square jaw and chiseled features invaded her mind. She could clearly see his tightly cropped chestnut hair, receding a bit at the temple, and his tanned face, with fiercely etched lines that could express his every desire. She could feel his full lips framed by the day’s dark stubble bending toward hers, and even now, her lips parted as they had a few moments ago. His deliciously spicy scent still consumed her nostrils. His tongue had flicked out and touched hers, swirled around hers. She had given in as his arms clamped around her, the heat of his body sizzling against hers.

  Elspeth again groaned. It was a wonder her mind had been lucid enough to demand he stop. One more second in his embrace and she would have been lost to Titus forever.

  Her hand brushed her lips once more. She must never allow him in such close proximity again.

  ****

  Early afternoon the following week, Roman trumpets announced the arrival of Count Theodosius and the century with which he traveled. Titus jumped up from his chair and tugged the leather doublet beneath his chainmail. He reached for his helmet as Bacchus entered.

  “Theodosius approaches the gates, sir.”

  Titus cringed. “Thus begins our charade. Planning games so soon after we took the wall from the barbarians is like tempting fate.”

  “True, but skirmishes have been few.”

  “Yes, though the enemies would have needed time to lick their wounds. They’ll be back for vengeance, and we must be ready and equipped to defend our position.” He shook his head. “I’ve spent the past week finding gladiators and constructing a makeshift arena for the count’s fool-born games, when I should have been….”

  “It will be a nice diversion for the men and will be over soon enough. Afterward, I shall ensure they repay the favor with renewed reconstruction efforts.”

  Titus patted Bacchus on the shoulder. “I knew there was a reason why I appointed you my optio.”

  They strode out to the portico
of the principia and watched the official parade through the gates. Theodosius stood in a chariot embellished with a bronze relief depicting a legion in battle. He wore a broad purple sash across his shoulder indicating his royal stature, and it fluttered behind him in the breeze. Clearly, Theodosius’s ambitions were many, since he had discarded a general’s uniform to reflect his elevated status of count, granted him by Emperor Valentinian after his successful campaign in Hispania and appointment to quash the Barbaric Conspiracy in Britannia.

  Dulcitius stood beside Theodosius and expertly handled a pair of pristine white stallions. His skin tanned, the centurion reminded Titus of the male courtesans that flexed their muscles outside the House of Fornicum in Rome.

  Titus clenched his teeth. Dulcitius’s vanity was foolish, but Theodosius’s elitist displays of Romanism disappointed Titus the most. Not that he wasn’t a faithful servant of the empire. On the contrary. But he believed, as an officer of his beloved Rome, it was his duty to set an example. Yes, he wanted the indigenous to settle their disputes and accept Roman rule as their own. They had brought industry, roads, trade and a host of other things to Britannia. But Titus wanted to leave the pomp and arrogance behind. Hubris and tyranny had no place on the frontier.

  He’d hoped Theodosius would see things as he did, but now the border had been secured, it appeared Theodosius might be making the same mistakes in Britannia as his predecessors. After a year of fighting to reclaim the entire island, the great count had not bothered to visit the battlefield. He had sent his centurions to fight the indigenous and overthrow the rebellion. But, alas, Theodosius was his supreme commander, and it was not Titus’s place to question, even though it made no sense to him. Perhaps if the count had been injured or killed, it would have given the barbarians renewed will to fight. Titus shook his head. Even he could not sway to such reasoning.

  He marched down the steps and hailed his guests. “Greetings, Count Theodosius.” Titus gestured his arms wide. “I give you Vindolanda, headquarters of the frontier, gateway to Emperor Hadrian’s Wall.”

  Theodosius stepped down from the chariot and firmly grasped Titus’s shoulders, kissing him on both cheeks. “Primus Pilus Centurion, you have not disappointed me.” He looked to his right and then to the left. “Yet, I see no signs of skirmish, no deterrent to remind the indigenous who rules this land.”

  Dulcitius jumped down beside the count. “True, we expected the road to be lined with spikes displaying the severed heads of barbarians.”

  Titus bowed his head, trying not to cringe. “Alas, I am sorry to disappoint. Bacchus and I considered the stench disagreeable. We burned the corpses.”

  Theodosius placed his palm in the small of Titus’s back. “Perhaps we can arrange a statement for the locals at our games?”

  Titus deliberated over his leader’s words. Since taking the wall, the local uprisings had been few. He did agree that barbarians should be reminded of Rome’s rightful rule, but why further incense the indigenous simply to showcase their power? It was yet another elitist act. He would rather prove Roman superiority by reinstating law and order along Hadrian’s Wall. “Do you believe it a good idea to entice the indigenous to rebel further?”

  “Rebellion is not the question. Undoubtedly they will rebel. We simply need to show them the strength of Rome. They are a conquered race of men. Respect is due.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Even though he didn’t fully agree, Titus knew better than to argue. He gestured toward the principia stairs. “Surely after your journey you are in need of refreshment. I have found some local wine I trust will meet with your approval.”

  “Local wine? Are you sure ’tis not laced with atropa belladonna?”

  Titus chuckled. “I’ve sampled it myself. Nonetheless, if we lash out at the locals without provocation, the wine could be suspect.”

  Theodosius accompanied him through the thick double-doors. “Titus, I detect a certain displeasure with my tactics.”

  “Not at all. I merely expect the punishment to fit the crime.”

  The count stopped. “And is conspiring to overthrow the Roman Empire an act of frivolity?”

  “Absolutely not. Many a barbarian has been run through with my own sword, not to mention the thousands killed in the reclamation effort.” Titus gestured into the war room. “Elspeth,” he hollered louder than necessary, changing the focus of the conversation. “The wine.”

  The count sat in one of the few padded chairs, and Dulcitius, with his girlishly handsome face framed by blond curls, took the seat beside him. Elspeth, obediently wearing her new gown, entered carrying a jug of wine and three goblets.

  Titus had never cared for Theodosius’s smile. It looked like a sneer as his thin lips revealed yellow teeth—and he grinned widely while he appraised the woman. “My, you have found a jewel amongst the savages.”

  Titus wanted to slam his fist into that sneer as Theodosius’s leering eyes raked across Elspeth’s body when she leaned forward to pour the wine, but he clenched and stretched open his fist to dissuade his irritation. “Elspeth has become quite handy in a short time.”

  “Oh?”

  She flashed a disapproving glance his way, and Titus shifted in his seat. “Yes, it turns out the woman is adept with weapons and is an expert archer.”

  Theodosius reached out and grasped a bit of Elspeth’s skirt, rubbing the silk between his fingers and peeking under the folds. “I dare say that is not the limit of her talents.”

  As soon as he dropped the cloth, Elspeth skittered away.

  Titus crossed his arms. “She will give a demonstration of archery to open the games.”

  They watched her exit, and Dulcitius chuckled. “Titus, you dog. You took no time finding a lovely wench to warm your bed.”

  Titus reached for his goblet. “Still thinking with your cock, I see.”

  “You are not bedding that?” Dulcitius leered, waggling his eyebrows. “What? Do you prefer ass over quim?”

  Titus’s stomach clenched as prickles of heat spread across the back of his neck.

  Theodosius cleared his throat. “Enough about the wench. We’ve more important matters to discuss.” He looked at Titus. “Dulcitius has brought some impressive contenders. I do hope you are ready.”

  Titus ran a finger around the rim of his goblet. “I have not had much time to prepare, my lord.”

  “I sent the missive giving you ample time. Surely you’ve found a number of expendable huntsmen among your prisoners.”

  “We took no prisoners.”

  Dulcitius smirked, admiring his fingernails. “Most unfortunate.”

  ****

  The journey from York to Vindolanda had taxed Dulcitius’s patience. The count was nothing but a bore—though a necessary bore.

  Relieved for a moment’s leave from the miserable count, Dulcitius reclined with a tankard of mead and eyed one of the whores across the brothel. A one-room roundhouse, it had been appointed with shrouds of colorful cloth hanging from the rafters that partially hid narrow beds from view. In the center sat an array of rickety round tables. “At least the bordello is well staffed.”

  His optio, Paulus, belched. “I doubt Titus had a hand in that.”

  “Baa.” Dulcitius tipped his tankard back, his eyes shifting to a soldier rutting a wench on the bench across from them, her skirts shoved up around her hips. The sight of the girl’s creamy skin made his erection strain against his subligar. He lowered his hand and adjusted himself. “Titus is soft. He’d rather spend his nights polishing his armor than in the arms of a woman.”

  A toothless wench with a rat’s mop of hair sidled up to their table with a pitcher. “I can scratch that bulging itch under yer tunic, m’lord.”

  “Remove your ugly arse from my face.” Dulcitius narrowed his eyes and glanced toward Paulus. “There is some quim not worth the effort.”

  His optio chuckled. “Yes, but there are finer morsels yet unclaimed.” He leaned in. “And what of your opinion of the games tomorrow? Will
Titus prove a formidable opponent?”

  “Titus is as ready to face our gladiators as the women in this brothel are virgins. I fear it will be a dull day indeed, though it will keep Theodosius amused.”

  “And you will rise in his favor.”

  “Yes.” Dulcitius smiled, catching the eye of a tart baring her breasts at him. “That is what matters.”

  “When you win, Theodosius will name you Dux Britanniarum.”

  “Theodosius will take his time, but we will ensure the office comes to me, and I will show Rome my father’s name must be remembered with honor.”

  “You shall be honored, sir.”

  “And I will see to it that you are rewarded for your loyalty.”

  Dulcitius drained the mead from his tankard and slammed it on the table. “I do believe my cock is pointing to a young bit of flesh across the room. I shall see you at sunrise.”

  Holding the whore’s gaze, Dulcitius rose and meandered over to her. He ran his finger across the exposed nipples that peeked from her bodice. “I believe this is your lucky night, wench.”

  Wide eyed, she nodded and grasped her skirts, slowly pulling them upward. Dulcitius grabbed her wrist. “No. Not here. Take me to a place with some privacy. An officer would never pull out his cock and rut in front of his men.”

  Chapter Six

  Titus growled as he headed toward the principia. He hated it when pomp was required of his office. He preferred to carry out his duty without creating a spectacle. Fortunately, his superiors rarely called upon him to host games and parade around a field like a puff-chested peacock. But Theodosius was a different sort. The man’s entire life centered upon how things looked, and especially how he looked. The count had an insatiable thirst for power, and Titus’s greatest consolation was that Theodosius would not be remaining long in Britannia.