“Yes. Those who are your priests.” Tacitus frowned at the interpreter, who nodded back. “That’s the word.”
Interesting request, this was. He’d heard the Romans allowed their client kingdoms to worship as they pleased, so why were they wishing to single out their druid priests?
Sending a quick prayer to his ancestors for the fine line he would attempt to walk, he replied, “Our priest is no longer with us.” And he wasn’t lying. Mungan wasn’t in their party or at Dunadd. Connall also hedged by pretending that the Roman understood the term druid correctly. Well that it was so, otherwise they wouldn’t have let him in the fort.
No way were they going to rid themselves of their intellectuals.
Later that afternoon, a fat dog with a bone clutched in its jaws darted between Connall and his wife then tore down the dusty, unpaved lanes of an open market outside the fort. To better protect her, he stepped closer to Ashley, his hand on the small of her back.
“I’ve never seen so many people in a market,” Domnall shouted from behind as he and two other men formed a human shield. The rest of their party guarded their supplies. Beyond stretched sectioned-off fields for cultivation, though with the winter it lay fallow.
Ashley tugged on his kilt. “I’d like to stop by the herb seller.”
He glanced down and smiled. “Eithne also has a list for me.” He peered around a stick of a man who had a sheep draped over his shoulders. How the man carried an animal that appeared to weigh more than him, he couldn’t fathom. “There’s one there.” He pointed past her, liking how the movement angled his body into hers.
Ever since the bath, he was more convinced than ever that she would soon be his. It had been so difficult to force himself to wait for her to initiate, but he’d done so.
He guided her through the milling crowd until they reached the herb seller’s stall. Amphora filled with rare oils lined one side, along with a rack of wooden boxes. Rope threaded overhead, from which hung clumps of dried herbs.
“Do you have any Queen Anne’s Lace?” Ashley asked the elderly woman within.
They’d found that unlike the soldiers manning the fort, the tradespeople were similar to his own, their mother tongue close.
He added Eithne’s requests to hers. But when the merchant handed over more herbs than he felt justified his offering of cured hides, he threw in one more hide. The woman was frail—more bone than meat—with no husband visible to aid her. “Now we’re even.”
The woman startled, her eyes going round. “I thank ye,” she whispered.
He draped an arm over Ashley’s shoulder and steered her back into the thoroughfare. Domnall and the other men fell into step behind.
The shouts off to the side barely registered, for the noise wasn’t close at all to the level he’d experienced while in Ashley’s land, but as they drew parallel, he espied Machar and others of his party on the edge of a crowd, their voices lending to the noise.
Foreboding settled in his gut. Romans with their large spears headed toward the fray. They were still some distance away, but he needed to act quickly. If his men were only watching, he’d usher them away. If they weren’t mere spectators…
“Domnall, you and the others remain with Ashley.” He eyed the approaching soldiers. “Better yet, take her to the encampment, and I’ll meet you there.”
As he drew near to Machar, he yanked on his upper arm. “What’s happening?”
Machar fought against him for a moment until he realized it was Connall who’d accosted him. Relief softened his features. “Teàrlach.” He pointed into the clearing. “Some trader took offense to how the boy looked at him, is the best I can tell.”
Sure enough, his youngest—and smallest—warrior was being pummeled by a hulk of a man whose tattoos were not unlike those of his own people. Connall’s gut eased a little, for ’twas clear the man was no Roman. But a scoundrel he was to go after someone unable to defend himself. Teàrlach was quick and nimble, though, and was doing his best to dodge the man’s swings.
Connall pushed in between the two fighting men and raised his left arm, blocking the next blow. At the same time, he planted a foot in the man’s belly and shoved. “You have something against one of my men, you can deal with me.”
The man had an inch on Connall, and his face twisted into an ugly sneer. “Your men need to show respect. That one called me a name.”
“By my ancestors, I said not a word,” Teàrlach piped up, his breath and words coming in gasps as his chest rose and fell. “He just came at me. Wanting a fight, I think.”
Connall blocked another blow and stepped into the man’s space, the rush of battle singing through his veins. Though he wished for nothing more than to let his blood lust have free rein, he kept it in check. “Respect isn’t earned by fists.” With a quick movement, he took the large warrior by surprise, twisting his arm up against his back.
Shouts of “kill him” rang out, though Connall was gratified to see none were his own men. When he’d held the man’s arm up high against his back long enough to make his point, and for it to be painful, he shoved him away with a kick to his arse. “Go back to your people and fight with opponents your own size.”
The man stumbled forward until he dropped to his knees. Then he looked back over his shoulder, his eyes filled with hate.
Connall strode toward his men and clasped young Teàrlach around the shoulders, turning him around to head back toward their encampment. He trusted his warriors to watch his back.
Then two of his party surged forward. Connall swung around and sidestepped the attacker’s lunge. Using the man’s lumbering momentum against him, Connall yanked on his arm and unbalanced him, then swept his legs out from under him. The larger warrior landed flat on his belly, the breath escaping his lungs and blowing dust into the air. Laughter sounded, which had not been Connall’s aim.
“Let’s be gone,” Connall barked to Teàrlach and the others. “The Romans are approaching, and I do not relish being here when they arrive.”
They slipped through the crowd. They’d have to circle back to their encampment, but ’twas the prudent move.
Connall spared a glance—the large warrior was still splayed flat on the ground, his face crimson. If these were the people the Romans wanted them to fight, he’d not find it difficult to meet the request.
…
Ashley rushed up to Connall, adrenaline spiking through her veins, a metallic tang in her throat. “Are you…” She pulled in several breaths. “Are you all right?”
She’d never seen a fight before. Not in real life. It was much shorter and much scarier than on TV or in a movie. The men crowding the circle seemed to feed off the energy, testosterone thick in the air.
Though her voice was breathy, it reached Connall. He whirled around and stared down at her, his eyes flaring with anger, surprise, and…heat.
Connall frowned at Domnall, his eyes now only holding anger. “You were supposed to watch over her, not accompany her to this spectacle.” He peered over her shoulder. “We need to keep moving. Follow me, and do not stray.” He directed the last to Ashley.
“But I—”
“You will obey me on this.” With that, he resumed his long strides around the back of the market.
Since she was planning on it anyway, she followed. Domnall and the others formed a tight guard around her.
“She gave us the slip,” Domnall said.
Connall shook his head and scrutinized her from over his shoulder.
“I was worried about you,” she said.
“I’m fine. It would take a lot more than that man to hurt me.”
At the reminder that he could be hurt, she winced.
Which then made everything within her go still—she didn’t want to ever see him hurt. But he was a warrior; that was inevitable.
It was all too much to take in.
/> He protected his men, and her, for that matter. What would it be like to have the love of someone like that?
And on top of all of that, he was kind. Throwing the extra hide to the herb merchant earlier had melted her.
Super-honest.
Caring.
Fiercely loyal.
All traits lacking in her ex-husband.
His powerful legs ate up the dusty ground, the muscles along his broad shoulders rippling as he moved. Ashley pulled in a shuddering breath as desire—hot and sharp—tore right through her and out the other side, leaving her feeling hollow and aching.
Oh man, oh man, oh man.
This is not good.
Thirty-seven more days.
I have to resist him.
But as he slowed down to let her catch up, her resolve weakened.
Would it really be the end of the world if she hooked up with a hot Highlander before she headed home? She should get something good in return for this mess. Right?
She gripped the sack of Queen Anne’s Lace she’d purchased from the herb lady, thankful she’d followed through on that precaution.
Can’t have a baby daddy stuck in the second century.
Chapter Nine
Four days later, Ashley pushed open the door of their hut at Dunadd, the leather hinges emitting a tiny squeak-creak. Late morning sun spilled across the interior, highlighting the bed and a corner of the trestle table, and a surge of homecoming smacked her so hard honest-to-God friggin’ tears welled in her eyes. She’d missed this place?
Connall’s straw pallet drew her focus. Heat flushed her skin—she’d forced him to sleep there so she wouldn’t be tempted to jump his bones. After they’d left Bearsden, it had been even harder not to jump said bones.
He strode up the incline, having hung back momentarily to greet some of the villagers. His thighs bunched and flexed as he hiked, the cloth of his kilt draping him oh-so-enticingly. Their eyes locked, and that heat swirling along her skin arrowed straight to her core.
Crap. I’m about to be all over that.
Whenever they’d stopped on their return trip, he’d brought her food and made sure she had the most comfortable spot when they bedded down for the night. All very charming at first, but as their journey wore on—frustrating.
As if each sweet gesture were a weapon he deployed, and her defenses were proving increasingly useless.
“I thought I was stronger than this,” she whispered, turning back into the empty hut. The thump of Connall’s boots sounded behind her.
“Is there aught amiss inside?” His words were a rumble right near her ear, his heat a tangible presence along her back, sending shivers down her spine.
Bracing herself, she stepped into the center of the room. He ducked inside, his large frame unfolding to its full height.
All the attraction simmering between them swelled, taking up the interior, pushing more insistently against her, and making her earlier attempts to resist him seem downright heroic and not at all something she could achieve now.
Though tempted to give in to experiencing a tumble with a hot Highlander, she’d forced herself to wait until they returned to Dunadd. Her fantasy did not include having sex in a temporary camp with a bunch of other men around to watch, thank you very much.
But we’re alone now.
And the possibilities bloomed. Still, would the Queen Anne’s Lace work? Should she risk it?
He stood mostly in shadow, but he languidly surveyed her body. She shivered—it was as if he’d lightly brushed across her skin with his calloused fingers.
This is it.
But he took a step back. And another. He raked his hand through his hair and made a fist at the crown of his head, making that bicep of his bulge.
She clenched. She for-real clenched.
He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes locked with hers. “I’m needing to report to my father. He’ll not be happy until he’s hearing the news from our journey.” His voice held a clear note of regret.
She released her breath in a slow whoosh, and a strange mixture of relief and frustration fizzed through her veins, as if all the lusticles in her blood stream were running around saying we can’t handle him anyway and oh my God what now? If the lusticles had fists, they’d be propped on their hips.
Needing to shut herself off from his mesmerizing and lustful gaze, she turned and clunked her traveling bundles onto the trestle table. With trembling hands, she fished out the smaller bag from the herb seller and held it up. “And I’ll bring these to Eithne.”
Take that. And, since the tension had been cut, it was the perfect time to have The Talk. Let’s be real, they were going to boink at some point.
“Before you go, I need to ask. Do you use protection?”
His brows dipped. “Protection?”
“When you have sex with others.”
He stepped closer. “I’m still not understanding, but why do you wish to know? That might help me answer.”
“So that you don’t get a sexually transmitted disease.” But even as she said the words, most of them were in English so that didn’t help. “Er, so that you don’t get…” She waved at her crotch. How to put it? “So that you don’t get wounds there from someone else.”
His forehead smoothed. “I take your meaning. I was tutored in the art by a druid—it was her specialty. And she cleansed both of our bodies in herbs and oils, and the members of their order regularly check their bodies. Since then, the few times I have done so, I’ve used a barrier made from sheep’s gut.”
Oookay. I asked, didn’t I?
“Thank you, I’ll just…” She held up the herbs. “Take these to Eithne.”
He nodded and stepped to the open doorway. “And do the laundry afterward. Our clothes need cleansing.”
She folded her arms. And glared. “Real men ask nicely.”
He smiled. “Real men know how to give orders.”
Infuriating man. “I told you it was a job, and I was right.”
The heat of his gaze raked over her and lit her core. “Not all aspects of our marriage will be a chore, I’m thinking.” Then he turned and left.
She slumped against the bench, as if the moment he’d turned away had cut some cord.
Holy hell. It had been hard enough to resist him while they’d been on the journey. Now? She’d be lucky to pass the night without getting a taste of that Highlander. And the fact that he was the obey-me type? Well, that would make it easier to leave him afterward.
It was late afternoon by the time Ashley trudged back up the incline to the first terrace and her hut. It had taken her longer than she’d thought to deliver the herbs to Eithne and help the women get through the chores left for the day. They’d been grateful for her return.
She stuck her hands under her armpits. Despite the exercise, her fingers had turned to blocks of ice.
Her muscles no longer strained as she made her way up the incline, and her breaths weren’t puffing out like some asthmatic steam engine.
Satisfaction surged through her, followed by a splash of cold—that meant time had passed. And she was getting closer to the deadline.
Thirty-three days before she could leave. She tightened her arms around her chest and bent into the wind as she trudged up. God, that still seemed like a long way away.
Thirty-three days? Here?
In order to stomach it, she needed to have some measure of control over her life. And first on her agenda? Fixing the gender inequality. Listening to Eithne and Affraic complain today, overworked and underappreciated, she discovered that part of the problem lay in the fact that they had no voice on their council. It was all run by men.
She pushed inside the hut, shaking out her arms now that the wind had been cut off. A little thrill kicked up in her heart—Connall was already inside, his large frame bent over
the hearth. He poked a fire into a welcome blaze of heat, the pop and sizzle of the peat the only sound.
Already she was associating the smoky, pungent, smell with home. It didn’t help that when she’d taken a bite of her first baked bread since she’d returned, and her mouth filled and prickled with its yeasty flavor, the memory that had always hovered out of reach snapped into focus—Grammy P’s bread. Those summer visits to her great-grandmother’s old house in Wisconsin had been the only times growing up that she’d felt cared for, cherished, special. Already into her nineties then, she’d died when Ashley was only eleven.
“How did it go with your father?” she asked, desperate to fill the silence.
He glanced up, one of his braids falling forward to swing by his chin. “We accomplished what we’d set out to do—procure an alliance with the Romans.” He pushed away from the hearth and faced her fully.
Her heart fluttering, she settled on the bench near the fire. Near him. He stilled as if on alert, like a predator amazed that his prey had come within range. Then the moment popped, and he shifted forward, turned, and folded his large body onto the bench beside her, adding to the heat warming her up. She stuck her hands out to the blazing fire. Here’s me, totally ignoring his closeness.
Prickles of warmth shot down her frozen fingers, and she gasped at the sharp pain.
He angled closer, and his large hands enveloped hers. Man, his hands had that rough-but-gentle thing down to a science. And warm, too. He was always so warm…
“Let me see them.” His voice gruff, but the concern clear. “Och, they’re like ice, they are.”
His enticing scent, and the masculine heat of him, mixed with the scents of cold winter air.
He briskly rubbed back and forth. Slowly, life crept back into her fingers. “I need mittens,” she said, her teeth chattering.
“Mittens?”
“Yeah. They’re like a piece of clothing fit for your hand. Keeps them warm.”
He looked down at her with interest, his face only inches away. “Can you make these?”
Wow. They didn’t have mittens? Or gloves? Though now that she thought about it, she’d not seen anyone wearing any, despite the cold.
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