Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1) (24 page)

A branch caught her in the side of the head and whipped her sideways along the horse’s spine. Her fingers still entwined in his mane, she held on. Pulling herself forward, Valeria turned her body to lay the length of the horse. When she used her knees to inch forward, she thanked God Taran had ripped the slit in her tunic. Both hands now clutched Blackie’s mane.

She slid her legs down, straddled the horse and sat, then threw her arms around Blackie’s neck. “Easy, boy. Easy now.” She clamped her arms firmly, terrified to move from the security of her grasp, but the horse showed no sign of fatigue. His hooves pounded the forest floor. Valeria closed her eyes and sucked in a few calming breaths, willing herself to make the next move.

She released her grip, threw her right hand up and latched onto Blackie’s halter. Her body listed to the right and she dug in with her knees to stay on. Her left hand flew up and snagged the other side of the halter. With all her strength, she pulled down on the noseband and forced the stallion to lower his head. “Easy, boy.”

Blackie’s frenetic gallop slowed to a canter and she let him calm for a few paces until she pulled down on the noseband again. “Easy, boy.”

Blackie slowed to a jarring trot, rattling her teeth. “That’s right, easy. Good boy.”

She continued this patient motion until Blackie eventually dropped his head and stopped, sniffing the grass in an open glade. Valeria rested her head on the horse’s mane and closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

“Valeria!” Taran’s horse skidded to a halt beside her. He jumped off and took control of the lead. “Where are ye hurt?”

Hurt?
She opened her eyes. Seeing Taran’s bloodstained tunic, she bolted upright. “
You’re
hurt. Oh my heavens, look at you.”

He reached up to help her dismount. “ʼTis just a flesh wound.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders and slid down the length of him while he gently lowered her to the ground. Her heart fluttered and she drew in a calming breath. “That’s what you said about the wolf bite.” She touched his tunic. “May I take a look?”

“Aye, m’lady. I wouldn’t want any finer hands to tend me wounds.” He shrugged out of his tunic and pushed it down to his hips.

Valeria’s stomach churned when she examined the bloodstains that ran from his midriff and soaked into his clothing. She made a hissing sound through her teeth, touching her fingers just above the wound. She inadvertently brushed the line of auburn hair trailing from his navel and down under the linen. Valeria hadn’t expected to be blasted with the image of his naked body beside the pool, aware of what hid beneath the folds of the wool. She inhaled a ragged breath as heat shot through her breasts and made them heavy with yearning.

“It doesn’t hurt much.” He reached down and pulled her up to face him. “But feeling yer breath upon me skin awakens the savage beast within.”

She stared into those crystal pools of blue, trembling. He felt it too? She swallowed, needing to find her voice. “ʼTis none too deep, but you w-will need stitches.” She nearly delivered the words without stammering.

Valeria’s gaze drifted to his lips. Taran’s tongue flicked out as he lowered his mouth to hers, and her heart raced faster than the cadence of Blackie’s gallop. She wanted to throw her arms around him and pull him against her, but she couldn’t disturb the wound. She settled for placing her hands on either side of his face, feeling the prickle of unshaven stubble beneath her fingertips.

Taran grasped her shoulders and drew her into his body. “Put yer hands around me.”

“I do not….”

He pulled away, hurt in his eyes. “What?”

“I do not want to further injure your wound.”

A sultry chuckle played across the white teeth of his grin. “Ye cannot hurt me.”

Valeria slid her hands down to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his smooth skin. His grin turned into a lustful smile as he gazed into her eyes. “Are ye injured, lass?”

“Nothing a hot bath would not cure.”

“I’m afraid we’re fresh out of Morag’s copper pots.”

She lowered her eyes, breaking the intense connection between them. “ʼTis all right.” She placed a hand on her chest to calm her breathing and stepped back.

Taran closed the gap. Studying her face, he brushed her cheek with his forefinger. “Is something amiss?”

She wanted to wrap her arms around him and declare her love. She longed to beg him to take her back to Dunpelder, to hold her in his arms and never let go, but she bit her lip and shook her head.

“Then why are you backing away from me?” Taran asked.

The pain in Valeria’s eyes shocked him.
She must be injured
. He reached out and grasped her hand. “Did he hurt ye…ah…inappropriately?”

Valeria blinked. “What? No. I’m untouched.”

“Something’s ailing ye. I can read it all over yer face.”

Valeria blinked again, several times.

“Tell me,” Taran insisted.

Her eyebrows knit. “Are you not hurting too?”

Taran looked down at his midriff. “Well, like I said, ʼtis a flesh wound.”

Valeria folded her arms. “I meant your heart, Taran.” She turned her back to him and pressed her face into her palms. Her shoulders shook.

He reached out his hand to touch her, but held it in midair for a moment. He knew what she meant. His heart had felt like it was held in a vice since the first day he’d laid eyes on her. Sighing, Taran rested his hand on her shoulder. Her body trembled. “ʼTis all right, my love.”

Her sobs became wails after he spoke. He had to be the most unimaginable lout who had ever lived. His insides ripping apart, he ran his hand over her hair. He pulled her around and cradled her in his arms.

“T-this is s-so h-hard.”

“I ken.” He kissed her forehead. “I never want to let ye go.”

She pushed back against his chest. “Then why are you?” She glared at him through swollen tear-worn eyes. Her hair matted and wild from sleep and her mad dash through the forest, she looked like a tormented creature.

“I thought that was what ye wanted—to go back to yer people.”

“Yes—so I don’t have to watch you wed a-a-another.” Valeria burst into another round of uncontrolled sobbing.

His heart breaking, Taran cradled her in his arms. It took every ounce of strength he possessed to withhold the words he longed to utter—
Become a Pict and
marry me
. Valeria must see Bishop Elusius again. Taran needed to discern if she was now more Roman or Pict. He knew concealing this test was not fair to her, but he had to know if she could renounce allegiance to Rome. This would not come through words, but through her actions.

Tormented, Taran rubbed his cheek against her silken raven hair.

“I love you.”

Though he didn’t recognize the voice, his throat vibrated when he uttered the words. They sounded as if they had floated down from the clouds and rested upon his shoulders, making him wonder if she’d heard him. He realized she had when sobs racked her body harder.

****

When they emerged from the forest, Pia rushed toward them. Riding Blackie, Taran still felt like shite. One look at Valeria’s puffy eyes, and Pia became aflutter with worry. “Lord help us, where are you injured?”

“I’m not hurt, just a bit traumatized. Taran’s wound needs tending.”

Pia’s eyes shot to him and Taran waved her away. “ʼTis only a scratch.”

She grasped Blackie’s bridle. “I’ll be the one to determine that. Dismount and let me have a look.”

Taran glanced at Valeria and knew there was no use trying to argue. Moments later he sat on a log while Pia used more of his precious mead, the sting making his eyes roll back. She then attacked him with a needle and thread. He clenched his teeth and balled his fists as he endured her ministrations, which hurt far more than the initial slash with the blade.

“You’ll thank me when I’m done,” Pia said.

“Right. Me gut thinks otherwise.”

He sighed. They’d managed to thwart the attack with minor injuries.

As soon as Pia tied off the last suture, Taran had them all mount up. All seven horses unscathed, they rode under a light cloud cover.

Valeria chose to ride beside Manas, toward the rear of the company. Taran glanced at her and she looked away. He resisted his urge to circle back and attempt to talk. He also needed to sort through his own raw emotions.

He gazed at the sky and tried to imagine what it would be like to be married to Leda. She had grey-blue eyes that always seemed as if they were about to cry. She was attractive in her way, but plain, with pale lips that disappeared when she smiled. She had solid childbearing hips and his mother said she would not suffer birthing a babe.

He’d known Leda since meeting her at Dunpelder when his parents took him to a gathering. She’d always been friendly and he cared for her, but she was like a sister to him. The thought of touching her the way he touched Valeria made his stomach turn. He could see himself kissing Leda on the forehead, or on her cheek, but a deep passionate kiss that roused every nerve in his body, that made him feel like a king? No. He feared he would never find such love again.

He looked over his shoulder again. Valeria was talking animatedly with Manas. The boy looked to the horizon and pointed.

“The wall,” Valeria cried, breaking into a canter with Manas on her heels.

“No.” Taran spurred Blackie to a gallop. “Stop! ʼTis not safe.”

Valeria’s laughter carried on the wind.

He kicked his heels harder. “Valeria! Manas!”

Her laughter ended abruptly when an arrow sliced through the air and pierced the dirt in front of them.

She yanked her reins down. “Manas! Arrows!”

The boy doubled back just as an arrow shot within inches of his horse’s shoulder.

“Dismount,” Taran commanded. “We’ll wait here until they send a sentry.” He eyed them all. “I’ll do the talking.”

Taran stood with Greum and Seumas on either side while Fionn hung back with the women and Manas. He prayed the guard would recognize him from the many Pict gatherings that had taken place at Dunpelder. But until then, the Picts who defended the wall were under Oisean’s orders to treat all approaching parties as the enemy.

Not long, and five Pict warriors clad in breastplates and helmets rode to meet them. Taran removed his helmet and shook his head, letting the wind take charge of his mop of unruly hair. The men approached and lowered their lances for a quick attack should they determine Taran’s band the enemy.

Taran held both of his hands above his head. “I am Taran, son of Brude.” He turned his face revealing the sign tattooed on his cheek and opened the laces on his tunic so they could see his father’s sign over his heart.

The leader eyed him with suspicion. “Ye look like Brude’s son, yer hair gives it away. We heard news of the king.”

“Aye. Oisean is dead. Killed by the Attacotti bastards, but we avenged his death. Twenty Attacotti lives were taken including that of their leader, Runan, the greatest bastard of all.”

The leader’s eyes fell to Taran’s scabbard displaying the bejeweled hilt. “Ye carry the king’s sword.”

Greum’s hand grasped his own weapon. “Taran is King of the Picts. I suggest ye pay him due respect now, or ye’ll feel the cold iron of me wrath run through ye.”

The leader nodded to the others and they dismounted. Kneeling, they bowed their heads.

“I am Morgon, son of Dugas. You honor us with your presence.”

“Rise, Morgon. Tell me, what news of the Romans?”

“Driven south, some say as far as Londontown. Just this morning a rider brought word they’ve named the uprising the Barbarian Conspiracy.”

“Barbarian? And to call it a conspiracy demonstrates their refusal to recognize the true lords of Britannia—we took back what was rightfully ours. Unbelievable.” Taran splayed his fingers to cool his ire. “Word has it they’re marching a legion from Hispania.”

“We’re ready for them, sire. We have reinforcements established at every milecastle along the wall.”

“Good. We’re traveling through. Have ye heard any word of a Bishop Elusius?”

“A Roman holy man?”

“Aye.”

“All the Romans we’ve encountered are dead.” His eyes shot to Valeria. “Why would ye be seeking the likes of him?”

“We’ve heard tales of his healing powers,” Taran fibbed. “We’ve come to spirit him to Dunpelder.”

****

Valeria breathed a sigh when Morgon’s gaze shifted to Taran. Fortunately, she wore a woolen Pict gown with sleeves ending in a point beyond her fingertips. Traveling in Pict garb, she’d avoid drawing attention, as long as they didn’t hear her accent. It was hard to believe she was moving through the realm, which was occupied by her countrymen not so long ago, now teamed with the enemy. She stared at the backs of the three men who protected her from Morgon.
They are the enemy?
How could I even consider it?