Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1) (35 page)

Panting, Taran lay over her, showering her with kisses. “Are ye sore, my love?”

Valeria chuckled seductively, making his insides ping with renewed desire. “My soreness is overshadowed by rapture. Never in my life could I have imagined how amazing that felt.”

He rolled to his side and cradled her against his chest. “I wanted it to be good for ye, but I could not hold back for long.”

“ʼTwas perfect. We are perfect.”

Taran woke to the call of a willow warbler. Completely naked, he watched Valeria slumber, her head on his shoulder as she curled against him. They had made love repeatedly through the night. He still could not believe it had happened.

He marveled at her raw beauty—her skin as smooth and creamy as fine-spun silk. Her breasts were round and proud with nipples of rose. Her tiny waist curved into the hips he so often had wanted to touch on those nights when he’d slept beside her under Pia’s watchful gaze.

Taran could have lain there forever, but there were two things he must do. The first was unsavory, but necessary. He would face Morgon before he traveled to the dressmaker’s roundhouse.

Gingerly, Taran tugged on his surcoat, careful to avoid disturbing his wound. Moving to the window to inspect the gash, he realized the night’s activities had opened it up. A crust of blood stained his hip. He needed fresh bandages, for he didn’t want Morgon to catch sight of his weakness. Taran draped his tunic over Valeria. Though it was dirty, she would at least have something with which to cover herself when she awoke.

When he climbed down the ladder, Greum jumped up to greet him.

“Have ye been here all night?” Taran asked.

“Aye, I didn’t want to intrude on you and the lassie.” Greum flashed him a wink and nodded his head toward the guard sleeping on the other side of the ladder. “Sim there told me a few unsavory things about Master Morgon.”

Taran glanced at the guard who started to rouse. Once his eyes opened, he lumbered to his feet, flustered yet alert. “King Taran, Simian, son of Taog at yer service.”

Taran nodded. “Thank ye, lad. What news of Morgon?”

“He’s no Pict leader. He’s raiding the Roman coffers—keeping the loot for himself and that motherless sucking swine, Raibeart. He told me to starve the lady and the holy man to weaken their resolve, but I took them food. The lady was so lovely—and half-starved to begin with. I couldn’t very well sit back and let him treat her worse than a dog—especially knowing she was under yer protection, sire.”

Taran nodded. “I thank ye.”

Sim’s gaze trailed from Taran’s face and settled on the gash in his side. “My oath, sire, what happened to ye?”

“We ran into a band of Saxons.”

Greum leaned against the ladder. “They turned their giant loose on him, but Taran killed the bastard. Twenty-one hands he was.”

Sim gaped, his eyes practically bugging out of his head. “Bloody oath.”

They were wasting precious time. “I need a tunic and some clean bandages. Then we’ll face Morgon. Can ye find that for me?”

The stout man nodded and headed for the door.

“Sim?” Taran stopped him.

“Aye?”

“Say nothing about this.”

He tapped his fingers to his mouth. “Ye have me word.”

Taran turned to Greum and lowered his voice. “Can he be trusted?”

“Aye. He believes Morgon to be lower than a Roman soldier. He also said there are many others who feel the same.”

“Good. We’ll have support if this escalates into a battle.” Taran moved to the trough and splashed water on his face. “Where’s the bishop?”

“He’s sleeping in an empty stall down the back.” Greum flashed a lopsided grin. “I didn’t want him to hear the carry-ons coming from the loft.”

Taran tried not to smile. “Ta.”

“It was time.”

“Yes, it was.”

Greum chuckled. “I’m glad ye agreed with me for once.”

Sim returned with a roll of bandages and a tunic Taran hoped would fit across his chest.

Greum reached for the bandages and studied Taran’s wound. “It’s been weeping, but that’s a good sign. No infection.”

Greum pressed his fingers above the gash.

Taran grunted. “Just bind it up and be done.”

He pulled the tunic on and loosely tied the laces at the neckline. It was snug around his chest, but would have to do. He fastened Seumas’s sword low around his hips to avoid aggravating the wound. “Simian, can ye gather the Pict men who honor our creed?”

“Aye, sire.”

“Move quickly.” Taran clasped Simian’s fist against his chest. “Ye are a true Pict, and yer courage will nay go unrecognized.”

With a grin as wide as the barn itself, Simian, son of Taog, ran off to fulfill his duty. Taran watched until he was out of sight. “If half of the men guarding the wall have his heart, we’ll defeat Theodosius’s legion and leave them bleeding on the battle field.”

Greum frowned. “Aye. ʼTis another war we must wage.”

“True, but they’ll have to face the Anglos and the Saxons before they get to us.”

“Ye going to enlist the Attacotti like Oisean?”

“No bleating chance. Come.”

Greum walked beside Taran as they made their way to the principia. “Let me face Morgon. Ye need to recover from yer wound.”

“ʼTis a matter of honor. He lied to me—and betrayed Valeria when she went to him for help. I will make short work of him.”

Swords drawn, Taran and Greum marched into the headquarters building only to find it empty. Furniture was pushed aside, and everything else, from maps to the silver tankards from which he’d seen Morgon sip mead, was all gone. “The bastard has fled.”

Greum shoved open the door to the back chamber. “Sim was right, the lout has pilfered the coffers. There’s not a single candlestick left.”

Taran pushed in beside him surveying the demolished room—no furniture remained untouched. “Aye, but it’s much harder to travel when ye’re laden with a load of metal.”

Taran dashed to the portico and stopped short. True to his word, Sim had gathered the men. All of them. The courtyard was full of Picts, lined up shoulder to shoulder. Taran panned the sea of tattooed expectant faces, and then he shut his gaping mouth.

Clearing his throat, he stood tall. “Men. Picts. I commend yer brave efforts in capturing and holding this fort and all of Hadrian’s Wall. I’m aware remaining here away from yer families is a hardship for ye lads. I’ve had word a Roman general marches from Hispania to reclaim the wall.” Taran thrust his sword into the air. “We will not let them!”

A cheer erupted from the crowd and Taran sucked in a deep breath. Leadership was what these men needed most. They were not receiving it from Morgon. “At the moment, we have an unsavory task at hand. One of our own, one with power, who should have been a pillar of strength, has deceived me, and has not been honest with you.”

A bass voice resonated from the back. “Morgon took me horse for his own and left me with a sorry nag.”

Taran nodded. “Morgon has wronged the lot of us. I need a band of volunteers to ride after him and bring him to justice. Simian will lead the men and return Morgon to Dunpelder, dead or alive.”

Taran glanced down at Sim who was grinning like he’d just won a prize bull calf. Hands flew up and shouts from the men who wanted vengeance rang across the courtyard. Taran held up his palm, requesting silence. “Sim will gather his team. I have not had the opportunity to meet all of you, especially since the death of King Oisean. However, the four corners of the Pict creed still rings true for us, just as it did for our forefathers. We must stand together, for at odds we will not survive. The enemy is regrouping. Internal disputes will make us weak. Live your lives by our creed. It must fill your heart, and the Picts will never be vanquished.”

To the booming cries of his men, Taran raised his sword again. “Honor. Loyalty. Duty. Freedom!” Each word was shouted to the heavens by a hundred voices. Taran felt the power of the Picts pierce through him as if a million tiny needles prickled his skin right down to his soul.

As he lowered his sword, he leaned toward Sim. “Tell me what ye need.”

“Help ourselves to some foodstuffs and we should be right, sire.”

“Let it be done.” Taran sheathed his sword as the men set to task. He turned to Greum. “I need to find a dressmaker, lest Valeria will be hold up in the loft for life.”

“Aye, and it looks like ye could use a new tunic as well. That one’s about to burst at the seams.”

****

Taran’s dirty tunic slipped from her shoulders when Valeria stirred. She pressed her hands against her abdomen. Had last night really happened? A laugh erupted from her smiling lips. Again, in the face of peril, Taran had raced to save her. He was her guardian angel. They were bound by more than love. Their souls were one and now they had joined their bodies as well. She was his, no matter what the Picts or the Romans said. She was tied to him forever.

When Taran’s red hair popped through the hole in the loft floor, Valeria pulled up the tunic to cover her breasts. He grinned, the sunlight catching the faint freckles across his nose. His blue eyes sparkled with happiness. “I see ye’re awake, m’lady.”

“Yes, and ever so glad to see you.”

“I’ve brought ye some food.” He pushed a plate through the opening. “And a present too.” He pulled himself through the loft door and held up a lavender dress made with finely spun wool.

“Oh Taran, ʼtis lovely.” She bunched the tunic under her chin, trying to cover what she could.

Taran moved toward her, oblivious to her embarrassment. “I thought the color would suit ye.” He stopped, a wide-eyed gape overcame his smile. “Ah. Ye better slip it on, else we’ll be romping in the hay again in very short order.”

Her cheeks burned and she shrunk under the tunic. “Apologies. I must look a fright.”

“Nay, ye are a vision who stirs me longings deeper than I ever thought possible.” His hands seemed unsteady as he thrust out the dress. “I’ll leave ye to dress. The bishop is waiting below.”

Valeria reached one hand out for the gown. Taran leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “I’ll leave the sausage and bread here too. We shall leave for Gododdin when ye’re ready.”

Gododdin. The word sounded like music. Valeria watched Taran descend the ladder before she stood, holding the dress up to her body. It was a lovely shade of lavender, with heather embroidered along the hem of the wide sleeves. Her Roman gowns, though made of fine cloth, had no patterns embroidered into them. She liked the femininity of the heather. It made her feel pretty.

Valeria smoothed out the folds and surveyed the fit along both sides. She held out her arms and ran her finger over the heather. The dress was a huge improvement over the filthy rag she’d been wearing. Certainly the fire was a Godsend. No one had been hurt, Taran had found her and she received a lovely new dress.

Valeria reached for the food. Taran had thoughtfully placed a comb beside it. As she ate, she methodically worked the knots from her hair, and when she descended the ladder, three sets of eyes stared.

****

The heavy anvil of guilt hung around Taran’s neck when the bishop inquired as to Valeria’s health as well as her virtue. He knew it was wrong to thrust himself upon her. She was so young and innocent. She couldn’t possibly understand the enormity of their actions from the previous night.

They were both overwhelmingly in love. Neither he nor she had been capable of restraint. He was weak. He should have been the one to stop their passion from going too far. He should have acted like a king. But no, he let his emotions seize his heart and his cock.

Heat burned beneath his surcoat when he remembered Valeria holding his member in her tiny hand. Taran shook his head to clear his mind. With a gentle ahem, he eyed the bishop. “As a holy man, do ye conduct wedding rites?”

“Yes, men and women are joined in holy matrimony and pledge their love before God.” Elusius covered his mouth and coughed.

“I want ye to conduct the rite between me and Valeria.”

The bishop launched into a fit of raucous coughing. “You cannot be serious. Are you not promised? I only went along with Valeria on this misadventure to appease her stubborn curiosity.”

“I love her.” Taran spread his palms wide. “What finer grounds are there for a man and a woman to be wed?”

“True, love is an important part of marriage, but you and Valeria are from two different worlds. You cannot even consider this.”

“Ye do not understand. She is bound to me, and I to her.”

The bishop’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

Taran’s gut muscles clenched. He would not back down. “We have lain together.”

The coughing wouldn’t stop this time. The bishop’s face grew angry red. Taran rushed to the trough and handed him a ladle of water. “Ye must marry us in secret. Once Valeria passes the test, she’ll be a Pict and we’ll have a proper gathering, but I must be wed to her today for my own piece of mind and hers.”

“Oh Lord, help us all. This nightmare continues to worsen.” He ran his fingers through his gray curls. “Come. I shall confront her ladyship.”