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

by Amy Jarecki

  ****

  The rain began to ease, but Elspeth’s legs punished her from slogging through mud, sucking her feet downward with every step. She balled her fists so tight her fingernails cut into her palms. They could not stop, and she refused to complain. Greum and Seumas had risked their lives to save her and were most likely feeling as much discomfort as she.

  Ahead an owl called. Greum held up his hand, signaling to stop. He listened for a moment and then returned the hoot.

  They waited.

  “Greum?” said a voice.

  “Simian,” Greum shouted and plodded forward. “Devil’s breath, I’m glad to see the likes of ye.”

  The Pict’s face was barely discernible in the darkness, but Elspeth knew him well. He had sent the traitorous tyrant Morgon to his end, and King Taran had rewarded him with a place on the royal council and desirable lands in Gododdin.

  Unfortunate he’s married and twenty years older. If only I could find someone who could pull my thoughts away from Titus. Elspeth looked skyward. Och, I cannot believe that idea even crossed me mind.

  “The camp is yonder,” Simian said. “Where are yer horses?”

  “No way to cross with them. Had to scale the wall. How did ye find us?” Greum asked.

  “King Taran has sentries posted for miles either side of Fort Houseteads. We feared the worst when ye didn’t show last night.”

  “Seems there was a skirmish at Houseteads. Ye ken what that was about?”

  “Nay. Word came of raiders wearing pelts. Bloody bad timing.” Simian mounted his horse and held his hand out to Elspeth. “Come up here and ride behind me, lass.”

  “I can walk with the men. I’ll be right.”

  “Sure ye can, but ye’re soaked clean through. I’ll bet that woolen dress weighs a stone at least.”

  Elspeth pursed her lips and looked at Greum. He gave her a gentle whack on the shoulder. “Go on, save yer legs.”

  Shivering, they trudged ahead for some time until Elspeth caught a glimpse of the glow from firelight. The rain had completely stopped and the moon was making appearances between gaps in the clouds that sailed overhead. “Are we getting close?”

  “Aye. Not far now,” Simian said.

  Greum shook himself, rattling his chainmail. “I must have been walking in me sleep. Yer words roused me like a cock at sunrise.”

  “Hello the house!” Simian bellowed.

  As they dismounted, the door swung open with a burst of firelight. The enormous form of King Taran loomed in the doorway. “Tell me ye found them.”

  Greum pushed his way inside. “Ye’re not getting rid of me that easy, even if ye are the king.”

  “Miserable heathen.” Taran grasped Elspeth with both hands. “Ye are well, lass?”

  “Aye, sire. Me brother kept us safe.”

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her into the tiny hovel. “I guess we both owe him our lives.”

  Queen Valeria stood in the center of the room, her eyes swollen and red. “’Tis an answer to prayer.” She held out her arms and Elspeth welcomed her embrace. “When you failed to cross the wall last eve, we thought all could be lost.”

  When she embraced the queen, a round bump rubbed against Elspeth’s abdomen that hadn’t been there before—of course she was unable to get that close when there were bars between them. She pushed away and cast her eyes down. “Are ye with child?”

  The queen smiled, and Taran stepped beside her. “Aye, and she would not listen to me and stay in Dunpelder. There was no persuading her ladyship to remain home—she had to meet with Titus and offer a treaty.”

  Greum ripped into a piece of dried meat. “Ye didn’t think the Romans would actually negotiate?”

  Elspeth swallowed, but held her tongue. His inference to Titus grated on her nerves. None of them knew him like she did. They had no idea what he was like deep inside. All they saw was another Roman officer in a leather doublet and bronze breastplate.

  Valeria’s eyebrows arched. “I do believe Titus would have come to an agreement had there been more time. These things are not decided in one meeting.” At least the queen understood the centurion was no tyrant. “Besides, the king is a wanted man south of Hadrian’s Wall.”

  “As is me brother,” Elspeth whispered, reminded of the empire’s tyranny.

  She looked at Greum, who was shoving a whole slice of bread in his mouth. He pushed it to one side of his cheek, making it swell outward. He nodded at the king. “Do ye ken who the raiders were at Houseteads last eve?”

  King Taran glanced between Elspeth and Greum. “Word came in that they are not a local tribe—I thought they could be Attacotti, but I cannot be sure.”

  Seumas removed his chainmail and stood by the fire. “The Romans will be blaming it on us.”

  Taran frowned. “Aye, and I’m sure they’ll be after you lot as well.”

  Elspeth slumped onto the floor of the empty one-room roundhouse. “They saw us scale the wall. They’ll be on our trail at first light, I’d reckon.”

  The king frowned and ran a hand over his bold jaw. “Then we leave now. Valeria will ride with me. Greum and Elspeth can take the queen’s mare. The others can figure it out.”

  The queen examined the caked blood on Elspeth’s sleeve. “You have been hurt.”

  “An arrow grazed me arm.”

  Greum rubbed his knuckles into her head. “’Tis deep. Pia needs to tend her.”

  “Of course, Pia is the best choice, but we cannot wait. Since she’s not here, I’ll care for Elspeth right now,” Valeria said.

  Taran groaned and eyed his wife. “We’d best be on our way.”

  Valeria shot him an indignant glare. “Let me see the wound. This will not take long.”

  Taran arched his brows. “I’ll bet ye’ll be wanting me skin of potent mead.”

  Valeria smiled. “Thank you, my love.”

  Elspeth wished they could just be on their way. Her arm throbbed with pain, and any ministrations from the queen would only make it worse.

  Valeria stepped closer and rolled up Elspeth’s sleeve. “I’ll remove the wrapping.”

  Elspeth nodded and gritted her teeth. The slight movement started the bleeding, and she hissed.

  “’Tis red and angry.” Valeria held out her hand. “I’ll take that skin of mead now, my lord.”

  The liquid stung like a violent lash across her back. Elspeth’s entire body shuddered. She tried to hold in a scream, but it burst forth nonetheless. “Boar’s ballocks, that hurts!” She gaped at the queen. The curse had spewed from her mouth before she could think.

  Valeria blinked twice, her eyes wide then a smile quickly replaced her initial surprise. “I see you have learned a thing or two from your brother.”

  “Apologies, m’lady.” Elspeth cringed.

  Valeria bent down and delicately tore a piece of cloth from the linen smock she wore under her Pictish dress. Elspeth imagined the woman would look graceful doing back flips. “I understand.” Valeria tied the bandage taut. “Mayhap you can sit beside me at the high table of Dunpelder.”

  “Aye, m’lady.” Though the queen had been subtle, Elspeth knew what Valeria meant. Sitting at the high table with the queen, a Pict lass would be very aware of her manners. Evidently the queen thought Elspeth could use some instruction in refinement. Perhaps Valeria was right. A warrior woman’s gruff demeanor was probably not the most attractive thing to a man.

  And now that she was about to return to Dunpelder, it was time to start thinking about a husband.

  Elspeth nearly choked. The devil with that.

  She’d meant it when she’d told Titus she wasn’t ready. She was a warrior woman. The only man she’d ever met—ever kissed—was Titus. Atar save me, how much I crave his kisses…the time he fluttered his tongue along my neck brought on sensations I’d never experienced before. My body betrayed me—is still betraying me. I wanted a man I could never have. I still want him. How could I ever marry anyone else when my heart yearns f
or him?

  Elspeth shook her head. She wouldn’t think about this now. Marriage? Bah. I’ll beg the queen to leave me be. She’ll understand. Of that, I am certain.

  She followed Greum to Queen Valeria’s mare, Mia. Although she was happy to be among her own kind, her thoughts kept returning to the man whose mouth she could still taste. Why did Titus have to be a centurion—a senior officer in a Roman legion? Why couldn’t he have been born a Pict—or even a Gale?

  But no, he was Titus Augustus Romulus. With a name like that, he had to be bred of nobility. Most likely, he wanted a proper noblewoman like the queen.

  Elspeth clutched her gut. What if he has an aristocratic Roman lassie waiting for his return? What if she’s as beautiful and refined as Queen Valeria? Men like women who are demure and subservient—not hot tempered and defiant like me.

  When she hoisted herself onto the horse behind her brother, Elspeth gasped at the searing pain in her arm. Of course he didn’t offer her a hand. No wonder she was so independent.

  It took them two days of slogging through mud to reach home. When the gray walls of Dunpelder loomed in the distance, Elspeth let out a relieved sigh. She was still riding behind Greum, and she hugged him tightly. “I’ve never been so happy to see me home.” So happy and yet so empty inside.

  “Aye, and if ye keep squeezing me like that I’ll suffocate afore we reach the gate.”

  Elspeth loosened her grasp at once. How different her brother was compared to Titus. She couldn’t imagine the centurion complaining if she squeezed him. The thought sent a flutter of tingles across her skin. Why could Titus not be sharing a horse with her? Alas, battles for lands have to be fought, and I was born on the wrong side of that wall. Elspeth scrunched her face. Correction, Titus had been born on the wrong side. With his powerful frame and solid legs, he would have made an excellent Pict warrior.

  Now that she was so close to home, thoughts of Titus as one of her kind consumed her. Elspeth closed her eyes. She pictured a tattoo running from his face, swirling in Celtic patters over his heart like the Pict men wore. Titus, son of Flavius. No. That does not even sound possible. She groaned.

  The horse’s hooves clomped over the drawbridge, bringing Elspeth back to reality. Now home, she must wipe Titus Augustus Romulus from her memory and return to her sentry duties on the wall-walk. As an expert markswoman, she would return to her place as a lookout sentry for the Picts—a coveted position for most men. Maybe she wouldn’t turn into a lady after all.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the five days it took to ride to York, Titus had thought of nothing else but Elspeth. He had pored over a million ways in which he could bring her back, but every one ended in death. He kicked himself for not going to her in the gaol. He should have talked to her—heard Elspeth’s side. Deep in his soul, he couldn’t bring himself to believe her to be evil.

  Lady Valeria’s words continued to haunt him: “She followed orders to ensure Pict lands were safe. That was her only objective.”

  His gut wrenched. At the time he’d thought Lady Valeria’s suggestion of a treaty had merit—could be the start of his vision of peace. But he’d ignored his inner voice.

  I had to. I could not negotiate. It was my duty to carry out Elspeth’s execution.

  Yes, he’d sent men to their deaths, and for a plethora of reasons, treason among them. But every execution he’d ordered had been for heinous crimes. Though treason was considered the worst, Lady Valeria had made a good point when she’d argued Elspeth was not subject to Roman law. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t see her execution as the right thing to do, even if it was his duty. Or is it the memory of her scent that makes me want to keep her alive?

  Titus tightened his fist around his reins. Roman subject or not, she was on Roman soil, representing herself as a Roman subject. And she deceived me.

  This conviction continued to gnaw away at his blackened heart.

  He tapped his heels into Petronius’s barrel and cantered ahead of his men. He needed a brisk wind to clear his mind. Were our heated looks across the chamber a ruse as well? The few times I lost control, she had turned to butter in my arms. How could that have been a lie? And why must my thoughts of her consume my every waking moment? Why in God’s name must I fixate on a barbarian woman? Yes, she has unsurpassed beauty and talent with a bow and weapons. She has a quick tongue, and the fire burning in her eyes could turn my heart molten. But there must be more than that. I’ve met plenty of beautiful women, and none of them have ever consumed my thoughts. I refuse to believe what we shared was all a lie.

  Titus urged Petronius faster. Elspeth may have initially come to his chamber to spy, but in his heart, he knew she’d remained because they shared a bond. Deep down, their very souls had connected on an intimate level. Brought together by a divine power he could not fathom, now their lives had become intertwined, there was no unwinding them.

  He needed to find her—needed to apologize—needed to hold her in his arms and never let go.

  If only she would agree to become a Roman subject.

  If he were a civilian, he’d be free to travel north and find her. If he were a free man, released from his soldiering duties, none of this would matter. Could he give up his commission and farm the land—live with the Picts? Could he walk away from his country and inheritance and seek her out? Doubt sullied his mind, and his heart bled. He owed unquestioning allegiance to his father and to Rome. Though Titus was the younger son, his father expected him to bring honor to the Romulus name. Yet when he left the army, he would return to his family estates and work beside his older brother, with the hope to occupy a cottage near the grand stone manor. Would that be better than remaining in Britannia? I’ve only ever dreamed of retiring to a life where I farmed my family’s land.

  But he feared the churnings of his mind was for naught. Even if he did find Elspeth and bare his soul, she would never forgive him. She would hate him for leaving her alone. He’d behaved as a coward. He hated cowards.

  Titus also hated himself for his weaknesses. He had allowed his pride and his ambition to mar his judgment. The more he thought about it, the more he became certain Elspeth did not deserve to face the executioner. He had acted in fear of what Theodosius would do if he didn’t obey. He’d been spineless in a way a true leader should never be. He could no longer sit tall in his saddle, and his shoulders sagged. His heart ached for the loss of Elspeth. Never again would he find a woman so pure, so full of life. She hadn’t cared about her clothes or silken ribbons and scarves. She knew nothing of court and the Roman way of wearing one’s honor on one’s person to display before all.

  As he pictured her, a stirring of a different nature hit him low. On the last night she’d slept in in her tiny room, he’d held her in his arms. Elspeth’s body had molded into his like a fine leather doublet. His tongue flicked out and licked his lips. Though with his mind numbed by the drink, he would never forget the fierce passion imparted through her kiss. If he’d only been a man and done what he knew was right. Blast his rank and blast Rome. If he could wind back time, he’d stand behind Elspeth and try to understand her motives before passing judgment. He owed her that. A good officer considers all angles before an attack—it should be the same when sending a man or woman to their execution.

  When the gates of the York fortress creaked open, Titus took a deep breath and again sat erect in his saddle. He would get this business with Theodosius over with and head back to Vindolanda to pick up the mess he’d made of his command and his life.

  The urgency of the missive seemed diminished while Titus waited outside the principia meeting room for hours while the count bellowed orders within. When the doors finally opened, Theodosius stepped out and frowned. “Ah, Titus. Come in. We may as well keep things unpleasant.”

  Titus clenched his jaw. “Not having a good day, my lord?”

  “Not having a good year is more concise.” He rubbed his backside. “The damp air in Britannia chills me to the bone.”

 
“True, ’tis colder here. Fortunately spring is upon us.” Titus wasn’t fond of small talk, but his breeding had trained him to put up with it, especially in the presence of his superiors.

  “I had originally summoned you to talk about the future of Britannia.”

  Titus swallowed back the lump in his throat.

  Theodosius fanned out his toga and sat in a grand chair upholstered in red velvet. It looked more like a throne than the chair of a general. With his helmet resting in the crook of his arm, Titus stood across from the count and watched him rub his fingers as if trying to dislodge something unpleasant. “I hear your prisoner escaped.”

  Titus could feel the blood drain from his face. Do I have an informant in my camp? How could this news have reached York so quickly? “I—I was on her trail when I received your summons.”

  “I trust someone assumed command in your absence?”

  “Yes, sir. As with standard protocol, Bacchus is holding Vindolanda, and Emedius has orders to capture the archer and return her to Vindolanda.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Theodosius folded his arms. “I told you to execute her immediately.”

  Titus said nothing. Fully aware of the count’s orders, he knew he had stalled, almost hoped she would be rescued.

  Theodosius leaned forward in his chair. “And now I hear the wall is being attacked by a series of raids.”

  Hades’s stones, what doesn’t this man know? News practically traveled to York faster than it did to Vindolanda. “There have been a few skirmishes, which we have dealt with swiftly.”

  “Oh? I understand you have no idea who these vandals are.”

  Titus inhaled deeply. “We will find them and cut them down. You have my word on it.”

  “Just like I had your word on the disposition of the prisoner?”

  Titus stood straighter. “These men are dressed in pelts. My intelligence is that they are not a local tribe, but a band of upstarts with no tribe.”

  “How can you be sure? It could be the archer’s people, bent on making your life miserable for imprisoning her.”