Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1) (13 page)

Valeria forced a composed smile. “No. You’ve been most generous, thank you.”

“Well, I’ll leave ye be then. The ram’s horn sounds for the evening meal and we all meet in the hall. Do not be late, else there’ll be nothing left.”

Valeria was uncharacteristically quiet while Pia preened her hair in preparation for her appearance in the hall. Pia insisted Valeria represent herself as the aristocrat she was, insuring they would not treat her as a commoner. If they believed she had clout with Rome, Valeria was certain they would find interest in using her for ransom. The Picts would most likely choose to treat her as a proper guest rather than have her mucking out some pigsty.

She winced with the pain from her hair being wrenched onto her head.
Taran promised? I need to leave this place and soon.

Taran took his place beside the king, who’d shed a considerable amount of bulk since he last saw him. The pain of his illness etched in the lines on his face. Oisean would not speak of it, however, and Taran planned to see him alone at the first opportunity to discover what ailed him.

Lifting his tankard to his lips, he scanned the noisy hall. Pulsing heat spread across his skin. Valeria descended the stairs like a goddess. This could hardly be the woman who shared his horse adorned in nothing but a torn tunic, hair wildly blowing in the wind. She’d returned to her well-groomed, regal stature. The simple dress hugged her breasts as if there was not a finger’s width of fabric to spare.

Slowly, he rested the tankard on the table. All conversation stopped as she floated toward him. Taran’s breath grew shallow. Unholy heat spread through his chest and turned to a raging wildfire in his loins.

Blinking, he jumped to his feet and greeted her. “M’lady, I see ye’ve rested. Do yer quarters meet with yer approval?”

Valeria raised her eyebrows with a cool smile, far less amenable than he’d seen at dawn that morning. “Yes, your king’s kindness has been most accommodating.”

“Please join us.” He offered his elbow but Valeria seemed reluctant to take it.

“And what of Pia?” she asked.

“I’d be more comfortable going to the kitchen to lend a hand,” Pia said. The woman always lurked invisibly behind her lady, but she slipped away.

Frowning, Valeria allowed Taran to lead her to the far end of the grand table, which actually consisted of many tables pushed together in a huge rectangle that filled the great hall. Roasted meat wafted from the kitchen as servers carried trenchers laden with legs of lamb, chicken and assorted legumes. Taran lifted a pitcher of mead and filled Valeria’s tankard.

“Roman women are not allowed to drink wine.”

“Oh? ʼTis not wine, ʼtis mead.”

Valeria pursed her lips and nodded.

Oisean leaned forward and lifted his tankard. “I see ye’ve found some clothes and a comb, m’lady. I’m surprised half the bachelors in the shire didn’t ride to yer rescue.”

“Thank you, my lord. Though facing Runan could have been a deterrent.”

Taran laughed. His eyes trailed across the familiar faces and stopped at Leda. She nearly jumped out of her seat, waving with exuberance. Taran acknowledged her greeting with a quick nod. He ground his teeth. Dear Leda deserved better. His feelings for her had never gone deeper than friendship, and now he sat beside a woman who could make his mind blank and his lust stir with a bat of her eyelashes.

Valeria’s delicate fingers lifted an eating knife. She reached for a leg of pork. Taran clamped his fingers over hers. The shock of touching her soft skin sent a shiver up his arm. “S-shall I help ye?”

“Very well.” Her response was curt as she slid her hand out from under his.

Was something amiss? His gut churned. Alas, coming home was bittersweet. He must face his responsibilities.
But not this night.

With her bronze crown resting atop a blue wimple, Queen Betha leaned forward, holding a chicken leg delicately between her fingers. “Valeria, do you have any special talents or interests?”

“Oh yes. At home I rode my mare near every day, and I love to read.”

Betha arched a brow. “No performing talents like singing or dancing?”

“My father enjoyed it when I played the lyre and sang for him. I cannot say if it is a great talent, however.”

“A lyre?” Oisean boomed. “Greum, fetch yer lyre. We’ll see if our guest finds it similar to her own.”

Taran placed his hand over hers. “Are ye up to it? I’m sure me uncle would understand if ye needed some time to rest.”

Valeria smiled and again slipped her hand away. “If the lyre plays like mine, it should not tax me too much.”

Greum appeared with the harp and Valeria took it to the dais where she perched on a stool in front of the thrones. Taran swiveled around to watch, drumming his fingers. What the devil had gotten into her? When they were out in the wild, they were inseparable. Now she all but abhorred his touch. Bloody oath, he needed to protect her. Had she no idea of her own peril?

Most the people in the hall were none too happy to have a Roman in their midst, and a botched performance could make them more resentful. Taran rubbed his palms on his surcoat, as uneasy for her as he would be for himself if he were up there. Of course he didn’t have the gift of music, so he’d never be up there strumming a lyre, but he’d feel a mite uncomfortable if he were.

Valeria plucked the strings, adjusting their tone, and then looked up. The crowd was loud as always and the folk down near the end hadn’t noticed her at all.

Oisean pounded the hilt of his dirk on the table. “Silence.” He waited for the roar to quiet to a low hum. “Our guest will try her hand at the Pictish lyre.”

Taran held his breath as Valeria strummed the strings. She plucked a tune as lovely as the call of a willow warbler. Taran exhaled. The hall fell silent. With all eyes on her, she began to sing. Taran’s jaw dropped. She’d chosen a Celtic ballad, which bemoaned the story of a love lost at sea. He marveled at her intuitiveness, selecting a familiar tune.

Her song rang through the vaulted rafters, clear and crisp. She sang with confidence. The swirling resonance of the lyre complemented her angelic voice. When the ballad ended, the only sound was the reverberation of the strings. Valeria focused on Oisean, her smile polite, but devoid of emotion.

Never one to be rude to a guest, the king slapped his hands together with an approving laugh. The hall erupted in applause. Smiling, the king lumbered up and helped her step down from the dais. “Ye’ve good breeding, ʼtis a certainty. Mayhap ye can teach the young’ens a thing or two about refinement.”

Greum stepped in and took the lyre. “I think I’ll wait till I’ve had a few more tankards of mead before I try to match yer performance. Me strumming’s not quite as delicate as yers, m’lady.”

She chuckled. “I would not expect it to be. I should think you would prefer a bawdy, foot-stomping ditty.”

“Aye,” Taran agreed. “He strums that thing like he’s chopping a wooden post, but there’s nothing better if ye’re in a mood to kick up yer heels.”

When Valeria resumed her place next to him, he reached for her hand and leaned toward her ear. “Ye captivated the room with yer song, m’lady.”

“Thank you.” Valeria pulled her hand away yet again.

Taran knitted his brows. “Is there something worrying ye?”

The thin line of Valeria’s lips confirmed his suspicion. “Sir, I have no experience in these matters, but I understand your betrothed is watching us from across the room. I shall not be played for a harlot.”

Her cool voice tore his gut to shreds. Taran sat back. He’d forgotten how fast news traveled in the castle. What could he say? Bubbly Leda chatted amongst her friends, casting glances his way. His eyes scanned the faces around to Drust who frowned into his tankard. How long would Valeria remain at Dunpelder? They’d made a connection on their journey, and before, she’d singled him out in the gaol. Clearly, she had feelings for him.

Now, she politely tolerated his presence, reining in any ardent thoughts because he was betrothed to a woman for whom he felt no love. Leda paled in comparison to Valeria, but his Pictish duty as heir bound him to Gododdin as much as it did to his fate.

Valeria scooted her chair away from the table. “I believe you were right when you mentioned I might be tired from our journey. If you’d be so kind as to excuse me, I would like to retire early.”

Taran stood. “May I escort ye to yer chamber?”

“That should not be necessary.”

Oisean swiped his hand across his mouth. “An escort is appropriate. Ye would not want to encounter a young buck who’d been too freely tilting his tankard.” He looked to his son. “Drust. Escort the lady to her chamber.”

Taran frowned and resumed his seat, but he didn’t miss the alarmed cringe on Leda’s face. He watched Drust offer his arm to Valeria and walk her to the grand staircase. His cousin glanced over his shoulder at Leda, their eyes meeting so quickly, Taran would have missed it if he’d blinked.

In minutes, Drust returned. His fingers lightly brushed Leda’s shoulder as he strode past.

Could Drust be in love with Leda?
Taran drained his mead.

Greum hopped onto the dais and picked up the lyre. Fionn hobbled up beside him, pounding the wooden floorboards with his newly fashioned crutch.

“How’s the ankle?” Taran hollered over the rowdy crowd.

“ʼTis coming good. Mistress Pia bound it firm.”

“It seems our guests will be quite useful to Dunpelder,” Betha said. “Pia and her healing talent, and Valeria educating the children.”

“Aye, as long as her presence doesn’t bring on a Roman legion,” Oisean agreed.

Taran rubbed his full belly. “With her father dead and the border under siege, what threat is there?”

“Slim to none.” Oisean narrowed his eyes. “ʼTis why I offered safe harbor to the lass. The greater fear is the ire of Runan and his men.”

“That it is.” Taran ground his teeth. Though the stronghold was sound, if Runan marched on Dunpelder, both sides could incur heavy losses.

As the night wore on, Oisean tired, another quandary for Taran. He remembered his uncle as a man who could drink any Pict under the table and still wield his sword with deadly accuracy. He watched the king and queen retire. Then, grabbing his tankard, he moved down the table and sat beside Drust.

Taran picked up the pitcher and topped up Drust’s cup. “Ye know what ails yer da?”

“The healers have tried everything, but he loses stamina near every day.”

Taran turned the tankard in a circle and watched the mead slosh inside. The walls of the hall closed in on him. He and Drust had never been the best of friends, but they had a bond of kinship and respect.

He patted his cousin’s shoulder. “Come, walk with me.”

Drust slid his dirk into its scabbard and chugged down his mead. “Ye’re brewing something, I can tell.”

“Aye.”

The night air nipped at his skin in contrast with the smoky, fire-warmed hall smelling of sweaty bodies and greasy food.

Taran tugged on his surcoat. “I saw yer eyes when ye glanced at Leda.”

Drust shrugged. “What of it?”

“I need to know if ye have feelings for the lass.”

Drust rounded on Taran and pinned him against a stone wall. “She’s yers—always has been, though ye don’t deserve her. Besides, I’d
never
cross ye even if I did have feelings.”

Taran could have laid his cousin flat, but for the moment, it was best to let him think he had the upper hand. Still, he fingered the hilt of his dirk. “Ye misunderstand. I ken ye would never touch her.”

“Touch her? She’s the finest maid in all of Gododdin. No Pict would dare consider laying a hand on Leda lest he face the ire of the king.”

Taran smirked. “Aye but ye just answered me question.”

Drust dropped his arms. “And what of it?”

“I wondered if ye had an inclination to marry her—take the bonny lass to Fife when the time comes to assume your post as chieftain of me da’s region.”

“Blast, Taran. Are ye planning to ruin yer life? Has that Roman maid got ye bewitched? Leda is yer match. She’ll make a fine queen.” Drust took a step back. “I’ll hear no more of this. Ye ken ye’ll be king. The sooner we return Valeria to her own, the faster ye’ll focus yer mind where it should be.”

Drust marched back into the hall. Taran kicked a stone and listened to it tap against the cobbled path. Slamming his fist into his palm, he headed to the stables—the one place where he could find solitude. Every day during his incarceration, he’d dreamt of returning home. Not once did he anticipate the problems he’d face. The elders would expect him to marry and produce heirs to become chieftains of Pictish provinces like Drust. His marriage to an outsider would send the entire nation into turmoil.
But Valeria has royal blood in her own right.

Taran’s mother was Oisean’s eldest sister, and following the female royal line, he’d been raised to accept his place as a Pict prince. He revered the position and accepted it with honor, but the thought of living a life with Leda after having cradled Valeria in his arms for two days tied his stomach in knots.