Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1) (18 page)

Below, footsteps pounded, furniture scraped the floorboards. Iron clashed. Every grunt and bellow needled into Valeria’s shoulders, her tension near erupting. A blood-curdling roar echoed from the stairwell. She pulled the dirk from her belt, nodding at Pia and the boy. “Stand your ground, they’re close.”

Runan’s voice roared in his imperceptible tongue. Valeria shuddered. She twitched with the creak of every hinge as the doors along the corridor were breached. Together, they stood firmly against the back wall as the door of their chamber bowed with a deafening thud. There was no mistaking it. A battle-axe hacked at the wood.

Valeria’s heart pummeled her chest, her breathing shallow. Focused on the hacking strikes to the door, she couldn’t blink. With one final wood-splitting crack, the timbers shattered. She gasped, staring into the crazed, hateful eyes of Runan himself.

Kicking the timbers, he didn’t rush in. Savoring his prize, he took his time sauntering up to her, battle-axe in his right hand, round shield in his left. His lips smirked, framed by a grizzly black beard. “Val-e-r-ia.”

She rued having told him her name. It sounded sick, foreign rolling off his tongue. Holding the dirk in both hands to quell her trembling, she pointed it at his heart.

With an evil chuckle, he raised his battle-axe.

Manas lunged in front of her, brandishing the iron poker as it quivered in his hands.

Valeria tried to reach for his shoulder. “Manas, no!”

Runan threw back his head and roared with laughter. He swiped his shield across his body and smashed it into the boy’s side. Manas crashed into the wall like a bag of grain.

Valeria shrieked and dashed across the floor, but Runan caught her by the hair, the battle-axe inches from her eye.

“You. Mine.”

Valeria’s hand flew to her head to protect his handful of locks from being pulled out from their roots. She eyed him and steeled her resolve. This could be her only chance. She twisted around the axe and swung the dirk at his face. “Release me, you brute!”

Runan deflected the blow with his shield. The knife skidded across the floorboards. Grunting, he yanked her hair and pulled her against his body. As fast as an arrow, his axe pressed over her heart. Valeria screamed and struggled, but his arm clutched her like the squeezing of a constrictor.

Pia slunk behind. She sprang with swift dexterity and wrapped the belt around his throat. His grip released. The axe clattered to the floor. His hand flew to his neck. Valeria dove for the weapon, wrapping her fingers around the wooden shaft.

Runan twisted to Pia and wrapped his hands around her throat. Valeria bared her teeth and roared. With every ounce of strength in her body, she swung the axe. The sickening squelch of flesh and crushing bone filled the chamber as it collided with his back. Gore spurted across the room and splattered her gown.

Blood streaming from his mouth, he whipped around and faced her. Staggering forward, he clutched Valeria’s dress. She slapped his hands away and backed against the wall.

Manas pushed between them, brandishing the dirk with both hands over his head. Before she could blink, the boy slammed the knife into Runan’s heart.

The savage recoiled, stunned, mouth agape. Runan’s knees buckled beneath him, his eyes rolled back. A gurgling breath of air wheezed past his lips and he crashed to his face.

Dead.

Valeria’s hands shook. Stunned, she stared at the monster, his blood pooling over the chamber floor. She felt detached, as if watching the aftermath from the rafters above. Pia and Manas threw their arms around her.

“We killed him,” her voice uttered like it was in a tunnel. Valeria cast her eyes at the trembling mop of brown curls beside her. “Manas, you saved us.”

A tear dribbled down her cheek.

Footsteps pounded through the passageway.

ʼTis not over?

Valeria forgot to breathe.

Sword in hand, bloodied from battle, Taran pushed through the door, his face stricken. His eyes darted across the scene. Dropping his weapon, he dashed to Valeria and buried her in his arms. “Thank Atar ye are alive.”

An onset of tears filled her eyes. Taran’s gentle lips brushed her forehead. She tried to speak but her shuddering voice was imperceptible. Filled with worry, his blue eyes gazed down at her. He bent down and kissed the tears on each cheek. “ʼTis all right, lass.”

He lifted her chin with the crux of his finger, his lips inches from hers. But more, his intense stare expressed a hundred words, showing the depth of his concern. He inched closer, his gaze dropping to her lips. Valeria’s heart fluttered. When Taran’s mouth met hers, she closed her eyes, instantly transported to a place of peace and solitude. His tender kiss sent a calming heat through to her soul. She melted in his arms. Closing her eyes, she welcomed his tongue as it possessively parted her lips. Spice and powerful warrior claimed her. Valeria yielded, not caring for the consequences. He entwined his tongue with hers. If only this moment would never end. If only she could fuse her body to his. In his arms she was safe, loved, protected.

“Valeria.” Pia’s voice floated through the air as if a dream. “Valeria.” Blast, it was persistent. “Valeria.”

A wire-haired dog brushed against her, pushing her body even closer to Taran.
Stag
.

With a warm breath, Taran’s lips pulled away and he touched his forehead to hers.

She closed her eyes. “How did you come here so quickly?”

“We were on our return when we heard the call of the carnyx. But we didn’t arrive soon enough. Much blood has been shed.”

“Valeria,” Pia insisted. “ʼTis not proper.”

“Taran?”

They both turned their heads. Leda’s troubled face gazed from the doorway.

The moment fled as soon as his body pulled away from hers. Valeria’s hands covered her lips, still tingling from his kiss.

Taran strode to the doorway. “Leda, we must make haste to tend the wounded.” He turned back to Valeria and Pia. “We’ll need yer healing hands in the hall.”

Valeria’s eyes drifted to Runan’s corpse, her exhilaration replaced by a sick churning in the pit of her stomach. The hands at her lips held back an involuntary heave at the stench of hot blood wafting across the floorboards.

“Go to the hall now. The men will clean this.”

****

During his journey through Gododdin, Taran couldn’t erase Valeria’s face from his thoughts. Every time he blinked, he saw her infectious smile or the kindness reflected in her eyes. He’d remembered the bouquet of her hair when she shared his saddle. He’d remembered her petite figure, the way her supple breasts proudly stretched against her tunic and the fleeting connection they’d shared at the pond. He could think of nothing else but returning to Dunpelder and taking her away to a place where they could dwell without the pressure of Rome or the laws of the Picts to stifle their love.

When the carnyx trumpet resounded through the forest, Taran’s thoughts had first shot to Valeria. Consumed by the need to protect her, he’d spurred Blackie to a gallop, leaving Drust in his wake. In the midst of the bloody battle, the Attacotti had not recognized him as he shot through what remained of the gate, straight to the hall.

He hadn’t stopped to discern the carnage when he’d heard Runan’s voice booming from the stairwell. He’d barreled past clashing swordplay to face him, but a mob of Runan’s men had held him back, challenging with their broadswords and battle-axes, wasting precious time. Taran had fought four at once, hacking with his sword like a madman. He was so crazed by the need to save her from the savage, nothing could have stopped him.

When he’d finally reached her chamber, the relief to see her beautiful face safe and unhurt had made his knees buckle. He’d acted with his heart, as if no one else were in the room. When he’d held Valeria’s warm body in his arms, her silken hair threading through his fingers, her breath against his chest, his stuttering heart had soared above Dunpelder upon powerful eagle’s wings.

Her mouth had melded with his melted his muscles into sweet-cream butter. She’d returned his passion with equal force. Without words, she’d shown him the depths of her own longing. But when Leda spoke his name, the reality of his world punched him in the gut, as if he’d been hit by the hilt of a sword.

The sound of Leda’s voice brought back the gravity of the battle that had been fought and the urgent work to be done. It would be a long night, cleaning the carnage and tending to the wounded.

Drust appeared in the corridor behind Leda and the other women. “Taran, come. Ye’re needed in the hall.”

Taran tensed and followed his cousin. Descending the stairs, he took quick inventory. Sickly blood of the dead Attacotti oozed across the floor. Hamish, the blacksmith, lay pinned to a table, lifeless, a sword pierced through his heart. Taran clenched his teeth and swallowed his bile. Hamish had been a friend, a good man, a husband.

At the far end of the hall, a crowd had gathered. An unmistakable wail sent chills up his spine. As he approached, the crowd parted to reveal his aunt kneeling beside the king.

“Oisean!” Taran rushed in and fell to his knees, grasping an icy-cold hand. He glanced down. Blood pooled beneath the king’s hips. He’d taken a brutal stab to the gut.

“Taran, ye’re here.” All color had drained from Oisean’s face and he struggled to speak taking great pain to swallow. “Now is yer time.”

“No, it cannot be time.” Taran looked around at the harrowed faces. “Fetch Pia, we must heal him.”

Oisean’s fingers tightened. “ʼTis better this way…The growth…death is s-slow.”

Taran cradled the king’s face with his hands. His own tears splashed Oisean’s forehead. “I love ye,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

Oisean drew in a ragged breath, a choking sound gurgling in his throat. “Protect ‘n…defend.”

Taran’s heart squeezed as he watched his uncle’s eyes roll back and blood trickle from the corner of his mouth. Tears blurred Taran’s eyes. Throwing his head back, he roared with all the pain and agony of war. “Why? Why have ye taken him?”

The anguish on Betha’s face deepened his own grief.

Bowing his head, Taran focused on his breathing and regained his composure. He cradled the king in his arms and stood. With clenched teeth, he met the stunned eyes of his people. “Gather the dead. We will grieve for the fallen and heal the wounded. ʼTis a grave night indeed. No one sleeps until the last bandage is tied. Mourn yer losses, then celebrate our victory, for Runan is dead.”

With Drust beside him, Taran laid the king upon his bed, a place where the Picts would pay their last respects. He turned to the queen. “See that his body is prepared for burial. I will have the stonemason chisel a relief of this battle and our victory. It will be a story handed down through generations, telling of Oisean’s bravery, defending Dunpelder against the bloodthirsty Attacotti.”

Betha grasped Taran’s forearm. “Ye have become a fine man. Now ye must be a king who all will revere.
Never
forget yer place.”

****

Standing upon the steps of the Great Hall, Valeria watched Taran’s transformation from devastated prince to Pict king in a matter of moments. She wanted to rush in beside him, but that would not be proper. She respected his courage, aware his position was greater than the man himself. At this moment, the people needed a leader, a strong chief who would guide them through their time of mourning and rebuilding.

Taran organized the cleanup, showed compassion to those with fallen loved ones, and proved himself a man all could follow without question. Valeria worked with Pia to make bandages. The wounded were carried into the hall and laid upon the cold floor. Morag shouted orders as she approached the pair. “Can ye stitch up a wound?”

“Yes. I’ll need your most potent mead,” Pia said. “Stoke the hearth’s fire. Boil a kettle of water and place iron rods in the coals.”

Morag puzzled. “Why the rods?”

“To cauterize wounds for which we cannot stop the bleeding.”

Without objection, Morag nodded and set out to organize the makeshift hospital. Pia assumed the role of chief healer and set to work with Valeria at her side.

The first patient’s bellows echoed through the rafters as Pia inspected an arm sliced clean through, hanging on by a bit of sinew and muscle. Pia pulled Valeria aside. “I marked a vial of atropa belladonna and hid it at the back of Morag’s cupboard. Boil the sharpest knife you can find and bring back the potion.”

Valeria rushed to carry out her instructions under Morag’s watchful eye, but the matron said nothing. When Valeria returned, Pia had the man calmed with mead. She reached out her hand. “Give me the vial.”

Valeria complied and Pia filled the tip of her fingernail with the potentially deadly liquid, mixing it with a goblet of mead. She held the man’s head up. “Drink, this will take your pain away.”

Pia stood back until the warrior shuddered into unconsciousness, his gray eyes half-cast. “Keep your hand across his nose to monitor his breathing. I’ll remove what’s left of his arm.”

Pia reached her hand out and Valeria passed her the knife. Pia crouched down and sawed as if she were slicing a brisket of beef. Blood spurted and bespeckled her face. “Quickly, fetch an iron rod.”