Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1) (14 page)

Would he be able to forget her once she returned to the Romans? He pushed into the barn and climbed the loft’s ladder. The smell of freshly cut hay surrounded him. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

Bloody oath, would the memory of her ever cease to plague him? Valeria’s delicate features with those expressive eyes, her lovely voice—everything about her stirred longings where they had no place. Desire flashed through his mind like a wanting that could never be satisfied.

He made a nest in the hay like he’d done so many times as a child. The stable was his sanctuary where he could think and solve the problems of his youth. He feared the mistress of the loft might not whisper a solution to his problems this night, but he pulled his woolen sash over his shoulders and lay down.

“Taran?” The only person who knew where to find him was his closest friend.

“Greum? What of the music and dancing?”

“Things are winding down for the night. I thought I’d find ye here.”

“Aye. I have a lot on me mind.”

Greum made himself a similar nest and unclasped his sash. “It tears at me heart to see yer uncle wasting away.”

“Drust warned me, but it was a shock to see him.”

Greum rolled on his side and propped up on his elbow. “Her ladyship was in fine form this night.”

Taran groaned. “Aye.”

“Ye’re smitten, are ye not?”

“I cannot be.”

“But ye are.”

Taran didn’t reply. Closing his eyes once again, he saw her face lift to his with her bow-shaped mouth that tempted his very core.

Greum shifted to his back. “What’re ye going to do ʼbout the lass?”

“We’ll need to find that bishop as soon as it is safe.”

Early the next morning, Taran rapped on the door of the king’s private chamber.

“Enter.”

He stepped inside. “Ye sent for me?”

“Aye. Sit.” Oisean gestured to a chair across from his hardwood table, carved with his sign, Oisean, son of Alpin—the same one tattooed over his face and heart, like Taran’s. “I’ve a growth inside me gut.”

Taran let out a sigh. At last the time had come to uncover his uncle’s ailment. “Does it pain ye much?”

“Aye. There have been days when I cannot rise from me bed. I’m afraid I’m not long for this world.”

“Och.” Taran clenched his fists. “We must bring Pia to look at ye.”

Oisean held up his hands. “ʼTis too late for that. I called ye here to talk.”

Taran sat back and nodded.

“When I go, ye’ll be king of this land, caretaker of every soul. Do ye ken what that means?”

“Aye. I ken.”

“Take Drust and call upon the villages of Gododdin, collect the rents and post a notice of a gathering at Dunpelder.”

“A gathering?”

“Ye shall be crowned king and wed yer bride before all Picts.”

Taran stiffened. “Now? When do ye plan for this celebration to take place?”

“At summer solstice, two months hence.”

Taran sat for a moment, staring at the man across the table. Couldn’t this wait? “What shall we do with Lady Valeria?”

Oisean shrugged. “Return her to her Bishop Elusius as she suggested. That seems the most reasonable disposition for her.”

“Aye.” The word didn’t come out with conviction as it should have.

“Ye’ve not got eyes for her, have ye?” Oisean leaned across the table. “She’s as fine as a rose in full bloom, but she’s not for the likes of you. Ye must marry a Pict. Ye cannot marry a foreigner, especially one allied with our sworn enemies. Did ye learn nothing rowing that Roman warship?”

“I have no love for Rome, ʼtis true, but when I look at her, she isn’t Roman. She’s Valeria, a woman who risked her own hide to bring me a knife in her father’s gaol so I might live.”

Oisean folded his arms. “Take the trip with Drust. The time away from the Roman wench will give ye time to adjust yer priorities.”

“Aye, sire. I’ll announce the gathering, but let the crowning and the wedding be a surprise.” Taran stood. “I shall also bring Pia to ye. ʼTis worth the look.”

He marched to Valeria’s chamber and rapped on the door. It cracked open, revealing Pia’s round face.

“Me uncle has a growth inside his gut. Will ye look at him?”

The door opened fully and Valeria stood within. Her piercing eyes tore through his heart.

“I cannot cure an evil growth,” Pia said. “But I might be able to take the edge off his pain.”

Valeria stepped forward. “Do your healers have essences of poppy and mandragoras?”

“I know not—most likely. Morag gathers the healing herbs for Dunpelder.”

Pia rolled her eyes. “That rules out atropa belladonna.”

“Atro-per-beller-what?”

Valeria folded her arms. “ʼTis a potent berry that will cause death if used inappropriately. Morag made it clear our presence is unwelcome. She’ll be suspicious of anything we may try, especially atropa belladonna.”

Taran’s jaw twitched. “Come with me. I’ll set Morag’s priorities.”

****

“I’m none too pleased to have a slave woman rifling through me herbs,” Morag complained.

Taran pulled her aside. “If she can help the king suffer less, it will be a worthwhile sacrifice, do ye not agree?”

She pursed her lips. “I do not like it. She could poison him.”

“Aye, and so could you.” Taran craned his neck around the doorway. Pia and Valeria were opening earthenware jars, sniffing, consulting, replacing stoppers, careful to return the containers to their rightful places.

Pia looked up. “This will have to do. Have you a mortar and pestle?”

Morag pushed her way into the tiny room. “Of course.” She opened a cupboard and pulled out a marble bowl with a matching pestle. “What have ye got there?”

“Poppy seeds and mandragoras root. I’ll mix them to a powder and then we’ll sprinkle a bit in his mead—not too much at first to see how he takes to it.”

Morag pursed her lips. “That concoction is likely to stop his heart.”

“It will be a powerful pain reliever, but it won’t be what kills him.”

Morag shoved Taran’s shoulder. “How can you stand there and let these Romans poison the king?”

He spread his palms to his sides. “Can ye not see they’re helping? I would trust them both with me life,
and
the king’s.”

Valeria’s eyes met his. Though she showed no external emotion, the smoldering coals in his heart inflamed. How could she control him with a look? Her mere presence here would drive him mad until the gathering. He must return her to Elusius before then. Atar save him, he’d not be able to follow through with the wedding with the temptress tucked away in the castle.

“Do you have an empty vial?” Pia asked.

The matron fetched a stoneware jar and stopper. Pia carefully poured the powder in, running her finger around the inside of the mortar. “He’ll need a half-thimble full, is all.”

Morag opened her mouth, but Taran held up his hand to stop her drivel. “I don’t want to hear it. Come.” He led them into the king’s chamber. “Sire, Pia’s mixed up a pain reliever for ye.”

“ʼTis quite potent and will make ye sleepy,” Morag said.

“Will it kill me, Morag?”

“Nay, I watched them work. Do ye want to take some now or wait till night?”

The king nodded. “The pain is ailing me. Let’s give it a go.”

Pia filled a pewter goblet with mead, followed by a small amount of powder. She swirled the concoction around in the liquid and passed it to the king. “I wish I could do more to help you, your highness.”

“Aye.” The king took the drink and glanced at Taran before draining the liquid, then slammed the goblet on the table with a grimace. “ʼTis done, now leave me be.”

As they slipped out of the king’s chamber, Pia stopped them. “We’ll need to check on him. He should not be left alone for long.”

Morag nodded. “I’ll come back before the noon meal.”

Taran tapped Valeria’s arm. “Will ye walk with me?”

She offered a subtle nod and gestured for Pia to continue. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Once they stepped outside, Stag trotted up to them. The happy dog cracked Valeria’s regal façade. Smiling, she clapped her hands. “Come here, boy.” Stag nearly knocked her over rubbing against her, his tail happily beat her thighs as she scratched his back.

Taran bit his lip. Where should he start? His fingers ached to lace through hers and walk hand in hand. “Are the Picts treating ye well, m’lady?”

Valeria gave Stag one last pat. “I’ll say they are tolerating me, but I’m not so sure they’re happy with my presence.”

“They’ll warm to ye in time. Is there anything ye need?”

“A bath would be lovely. ʼTis difficult to wash my hair in the basin.”

“Romans love their baths, ʼtis true.” His gaze trailed down her back, taking in the length of her silky black hair. If only he could reach out and run his fingers through it, but he balled his fists. “I can imagine those bonny locks would need a great deal of at attention.”

Her hair billowed with the turn of her head. “Yes. Why did you tell me your father was ill when it was in fact Oisean?”

Taran frowned. She wasn’t going to make this easy. “I’m sorry I fibbed, m’lady. As I said, we could not reveal his identity for fear of a Roman attack.”

She crossed her arms. “I see. Are there any other untruths I should be aware of?”

“I…um…” He felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. He must tell her. Keeping an acceptable distance between them, he led her through the courtyard, grimly nodding at familiar faces. “Me uncle wants me to ride through Gododdin and announce a gathering.”

“Does that mean you’ll be leaving?”

“Aye, the journey should take about two weeks.”

Valeria sped her pace. “You cannot leave me here alone. Everyone looks at me with distrust, as if I’ll slit their throats.”

“It would be inappropriate for me to take ye with me.”

“Because you are promised to Leda?”

Taran’s jaw twitched. “Aye.” It sounded like a moan of agony.

Valeria stopped, arms wrapped around her shoulders. “You tricked me out there in the wild. You took advantage of my vulnerability.”

“Och, I do not want to marry her.”

“What business is it of mine whom you marry?”

Taran bit the inside of his cheek and led her through the courtyard. All eyes glanced their way. He couldn’t risk a public display. But did she really not care? If only he could pour out his feelings and tell her how much he wanted her. He clenched his fists. What good would that do?

Valeria ran her hand along the stone pen housing a sow and her brood of piglets. “Tell me about the royal female line. How does it work? Why were
you
chosen?”

A change in subject he could handle. “The firstborn son of the king’s eldest sister generally becomes prince.”

“Generally? I’m not sure I follow.”

“It can seem complicated, but me ma’s Oisean’s sister. He was the first-born son of king Dar’s sister. Do ye see? ʼTis much different than the succession of other tribes. Drust can never be king of the Picts, but he can be a chieftain over lands.”

Valeria nodded. “I understand, but what did you mean by
generally
the first-born son of the eldest sister is named?”

“If the eldest sister has no son or her son is dim-witted, the line could pass on from an aunt or cousin. The boy must be put to the test first. Picts need a strong warrior on the throne, one that upholds the four corners of the Pict creed.”

“Which is?”

“Honor, loyalty, duty, freedom. The elders will not approve of a boy who is weak or deceitful. The king must be a warrior the people will follow.”

“How old were you when they named you prince?”

“Four and ten. Me da brought me to Gododdin to be tested by the elders. When the decision was made, my parents left me to be fostered by Oisean.”

“My goodness. No wonder Drust is such a cranky man.”

“Drust understands the way of the Picts—he just has no sense of humor. He’ll become chieftain of Fife, my father’s lands, when the time comes. Queen Betha is a second cousin as well.”

“I see, so ʼtis not just the king who is subject to the decree of the royal female line.”

“True. All chieftains are appointed in the same way.” Taran reached out and brushed her cheek. The contact made gooseflesh rise across his arms. “I’ll have Greum watch over ye while I’m away. The king has granted you sanctuary. The Picts will not act against him. When I return, we’ll find yer bishop if that is what ye wish.”

“Yes, returning to Rome so my uncle can appoint a husband is the best I can hope for.”

Taran ground his teeth against the sickening feeling of a free fall from a cliff. The thought of her with another man made him ill.