Celtic Maid (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 2) (16 page)

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.”

“That was my first impression as well, sir. But the location of the raids does not make sense.”

Theodosius narrowed his eyes and smirked. “I think you are infatuated with this wench, and your cock is marring your judgment.”

Titus’s gut clenched. Was he that transparent? “No, sir. We will find the prisoner and stop the vandals. The best way for me to ensure this happens is to return to my command post forthwith.”

“I must advise you I am not pleased with your performance or your insubordination. Bring the wall under control, or I will have no choice but to send another in your place. Dulcitius has done quite well managing the indigenous. He tolerates no such marauding behavior.”

“Yes, sir.” Titus’s gut clenched at the mention of Dulcitius. Everything had gone smoothly until that snake meddled in his affairs.

Theodosius lifted a goblet of wine. “Go visit him and learn what he has done to get the locals under his control.”

Titus would have rather fought a hundred lions in the Coliseum. He offered a curt bow. “Right away, sir.” He turned on his heel.

“Oh, Titus,” Theodosius called after him. “I need notice of your success soon. I will be appointing the new
Dux
shortly, and this has not made me look favorably upon your candidacy. I am certain your father will be quite disappointed should my decision not favor you.”

Titus nodded over his shoulder and proceeded out the heavy oak doors. One of his men spied the look on his face and hustled up to him. “Is everything all right, sir?”

“My problem is that I am in York. It seems our leader is being fed information faster than I am. I need to be back at the wall dealing with the upstarts.” Titus clamped his helmet on his head. “I must meet with Dulcitius. When I am through, we shall ride. Ready the men.”

Titus found his nemesis in the practice arena, fighting with a war post. Titus grabbed a wooden practice sword and stepped toward the centurion, wishing it were his short sword in his hand so he could inflict some real damage.

Dulcitius was naked from the waist up, and his chest shone with sweat in the noonday sun. Titus wondered what his pristine, close shaven chest would look like with a scar from his shoulder to his hip.

Dulcitius sensed his approach and looked up from the post he was mutilating. “Titus, what a surprise to see
you
here.”

Titus pointed the wooden sword at Dulcitius heart. “Is it?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Dulcitius turned to face him and crouched into a defensive stance.

“I think we both know exactly what I mean.”

The corner of Dulcitius’s mouth ticked up. “I hear you have been plagued by raids up north. ’Tis a pity.” He lunged, making the first thrust.

Titus shuffled back and deflected the blow. He spun and aimed for his opponent’s neck. “Exactly what
do
you know?”

Dulcitius countered with a thrust of his shield. “That you are an incompetent milk-livered bastard. You will never be Dux.”

Titus shoved aside Dulcitius’s advance then pushed through his defense. Wrapping his fingers around his opponent’s throat, Titus took a step in and stood with his nose a hair’s breadth from Dulcitius. “If I uncover any skullduggery on your part, I will have you decommissioned.”

Dulcitius kept his eyes level. “Whatever do you mean, Centurion? I have my own affairs in York.”

Titus leaned in, making Dulcitius arch his back. “Then you can stay away from mine.” He shoved the cur to the dirt.

Titus turned to leave. With a roar, Dulcitius ran at him from behind. Quickly glancing over his shoulder, Titus stepped to the side and grabbed Dulcitius’s wrist. With a twist, he flipped the backstabbing piece of shite onto his spine. “Stay down!” Titus marched ahead.

“I will be
Dux
,” Dulcitius bellowed like a spoilt child. “Mark my word. My father will be honored!”

Titus stopped and turned. His hands shook as he forced himself to maintain control. “Is that why you must incessantly prove yourself? You are Roman officer, honored by your station.”

“I am a Roman officer who is judged by the actions of his father.”

Titus shook his head. “A man earns his own respect.”

“You would know nothing about living in the shadow of a man who betrayed his country. Your father is a senator, a decorated general.”

Titus threw the wooden sword across the yard. “I did not earn my station because of my father.”

“You never could have become an officer if it were not for him. You would be a helpless slave on the streets of Rome holding your hand out, begging for favors.”

Titus balled his fists and marched forward. Dulcitius raised an arm over his head and scooted back in the dirt. Titus stood over him ready to fight. “Stand and defend yourself, coward.”

The blackguard scrambled up, diving against Titus’s waist. Titus bent his knees and threw his weight into the man, throwing an undercut into Dulcitius’s jaw. The centurion’s head snapped back. The sound of his teeth gnashing together echoed across the arena. Dulcitius landed with a thud, his feet tucked under and arms spread wide.

Titus kicked at the turf. “See if that doesn’t toughen up your pretty fair-haired face.” He stormed back to his men. “We ride to Vindolanda at once!”

****

Dulcitius reclined in his chamber while Paulus applied salve to his swollen jaw. His hatred for Titus boiled under his skin.
When I become Dux, I will squash Titus and his fool-born pride. I will see that arrogant bastard hang, and he will bring shame to his father’s house.

He hissed and yanked his head aside. “Watch yourself.”