Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1) (3 page)

“Oh?”

“My dear girl, you have become a woman.” He cupped her face in his hands. “ʼTis past time for you to find a husband.”

Valeria’s insides dropped as if she’d jumped from the twenty-foot wall. Couldn’t he let it pass for a few weeks…or months?

“I had Quintus escort you to dinner for a reason. Did you find him pleasant?”

Her head spun. Quintus had been polite, but a possible suitor? She cringed. Valeria pictured him taking away her riding privileges and shuddered. “Goodness, I barely spoke to him, Papa.”

“Consider it on your ride tomorrow. Quintus has proven himself to be a fine officer and I can see him as a general leading his own legion in the future. He would make an excellent match.”

Valeria stared at her sandals.
Heaven help me.

****

The next morning, when at last Valeria escaped Pia’s primping with a ribbon of blue silk holding her unruly locks away from her face, she paid a visit to the kitchen and hid a leather parcel of food under her cloak.

Then she headed for the garden and found Bishop Elusius waiting under a budding sycamore tree. The purple sash over his white toga fluttered behind him. “Are you ready for this, my child? A gaol can be like hell on earth.”

She looped her arm through the bishop’s. “I will have you with me.” She shivered as a breeze billowed through her cloak. “ʼTis spring and the air is as cool as a winter’s day in Rome.”

The bishop nodded. “I’ve heard many a soldier complain about the cold on the frontier. When they return to Rome, the legionaries bemoan the stinging rain and bone-chilling gale of the north wind.”

Valeria grinned. “At least I don’t have to worry about winter today. I’ve never seen a land as lush and green. ʼTis a blessing.”

“That it is, my child.”

They strolled past well-manicured hedges and statuary of former emperors, but Valeria’s smile waned as they neared the gaol. She paled at the stench of rotting flesh and human excrement many paces before they reached the two soldiers who stood guard at the entrance.

“Lady Valeria and I have come to pray over the prisoners,” Elusius announced.

The guard looked curiously at the large bronze cross hanging around the bishop’s neck. “I see you pray to a Christian god. What of Zeus and Athena?”

“Constantine the Great opened our eyes to Christianity, my son. Rome now follows the teachings of Jesus.” Elusius made the sign of the cross as the guard stepped aside.

Valeria pulled her cloak across her nose while they descended the winding steps into the damp dungeon. They paused to allow their eyes to adjust to the dim light. Valeria jolted when a rat scampered across the passageway. “Heavens.”

Nothing could have prepared her for the abominable horror she found when she stepped around the corner.

The iron bars separating each tiny cell seemed unnecessary as the inhabitants were in chains. Aside from the eye-stinging stench, strips of rags covered rotting flesh. A prisoner smiled at her with black teeth. Her gut churned. All appeared starved, their bones jutted out from loose flesh. Another eyed her, his dark hair hanging down in greasy strands, partially covering his filthy face.

They strode past a bucket that nearly made her retch. She didn’t have to look to know what it contained.

Valeria tightened her grasp around Elusius’ arm, sucking in a ragged breath beneath the fabric of her cloak. “My goodness, this is far worse than I could have imagined.”

The bishop opened his scroll and Valeria clung to him as he recited the Latin words of penitence. “Have mercy on these wretched souls, O God…”

Valeria closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the words. She blocked out the desolation around her. How could her father allow this inhumanity, even if these men
were
deserters and thieves?

“…blot out their transgressions, wash away their inequities and cleanse them from sin…”

The bishop led her along the dank corridor strewn with rotting straw and rank liquid she hoped was water. When she took a step, her ankle wrenched in a hole and twisted her slipper off. Valeria tumbled to her knees. A grunt escaped her throat. Her cheeks burned. She quickly grasped her slipper and drew her feet beneath her. “Poor lighting,” she grumbled, brushing the dirt from her hands.

Before she stood, her head snapped up. Behind the bars, only inches from her face, the Pict watched her. Still wearing his grey quilted surcoat, he reclined against the cage, his powerful legs chained to the bars. His huge hands were shackled with a foot of chain between them.

Valeria couldn’t breathe as she rose. His eyes followed hers. Mouth dry, she swallowed hard. “I was told you were an oarsman for the Empire.”

His face darkened as if a cloud had passed over, obscuring the sun. He looked away.

“Did you understand me?”

He made no move, staring across the cell as if he were deaf.

Elusius stepped in beside her. “I doubt these simple-minded natives know Latin.”

She bent down as if to be better heard. “
De an T-ainm a tha oirbh?
” Possibly asking his name in a Celtic tongue would open a door.

His auburn hair tossed when he moved and he turned toward her with narrowed eyes. Those beautiful pools of blue stared back at her just as they had in the courtyard. Valeria gasped, rubbing a hand across the tingling flesh on her arm.

The Pict’s gaze shot to the bishop then he glanced back at her and his lips thinned. He shook his head.
Ah, he distrusts the holy man
. Valeria nodded once.

The bishop proceeded along. “I think Picts speak a form of Celtic all their own.”

Valeria watched Elusius disappear down another corridor then turned back to the Pict. The lanky prisoner in the adjoining cell smiled broadly. She knew she had no business staying there. Would the Pict speak to her? What language should she use? Valeria thought his face had registered understanding when she spoke to him in her native Latin and her Celtic was not quite as fluent.

She sucked in a deep breath. “I will ask my father to ensure the men receive fresh bedding.”

He made no move. Of course he wouldn’t thank her, what did she expect?

Perhaps she would try Celtic again. “
A bheil an t-acras ort?
” Valeria bit her lip. It did sound like a dim-witted question, asking a man in a place like this if he was hungry. Though he continued to ignore her, by the gaunt hollowing of his cheeks, he certainly looked starved. She reached beneath her cloak and pulled out the leather parcel she’d taken from the kitchen. Pulling on the leather thong, she unwrapped it and passed two slices of buttered bread and a healthy slice of roast pork through the bars.

That drew his attention. The Pict snatched the parcel and crammed the meat into his mouth, barely chewing before it slid down his muscular neck.

The shackles of the man in the adjoining cell scraped along the stone floor. “Aye, m’lady, we’re all starved.” He reached his hand out. “Taran, give me a morsel. I can smell it from here.”

“Taran? You speak Latin?”

“Aye,” he grunted and pulled the buttered bread apart. Giving a slice to his friend, he shoved the other in his mouth. “Chained to the hull of a Roman ship for two years, a man picks things up.”

“Did you volunteer to be an oarsman?”

Valeria jolted when the deep bass of his laugh echoed through the chamber. “Romans take whomever they please to serve their empire. No one north of the wall would ever volunteer for any Roman task, least of all an oarsman.”

“Did you know they would try you as a deserter if you were caught escaping?”

“I did. I had no choice.”

“Oh?”

His jaw tightened.

The man in the adjoining cell scooted along the floor. “He was summoned by the King of Gododdin. His father’s ill. He must return.”

Taran glared at the man. “That’s enough, Greum.”

Valeria stared at Taran’s big hands, sprinkled with copper. Covered with callouses, they looked powerful enough to row a Roman warship singlehandedly. Her gaze trailed up—his heartbeat pulsed beneath the blue Celtic swirls on his neck. She licked her lips. If only she could touch it.

Taken from his home against his will and when he attempted escape, he was thrown into gaol, surely to hang in the gallows? She couldn’t sit idly by and watch him be tried and hanged. He was too beautiful for words, yet his beauty would not suffice for an argument. Her father must hear reason.

Valeria started to turn, but Taran’s hand shot through the bars and his fingers wrapped around her wrist. The power in his hand crushed her arm like a tourniquet, but she bore it, clenching her teeth while his gaze seared into hers. “I know ye didn’t come here for idle chat. Yer assistance in freeing us is what we need more than food, clean straw, or any other worldly comfort yer pretty head might imagine.”

Valeria yanked her arm from his easing grasp and backed away. His eyes didn’t blink. They watched her move with fervent hunger. She opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue was dry.

The bishop’s deep voice rang out as he concluded the prayer. “…In your good pleasure make Zion prosper. Build up the walls of Jerusalem. Then there will be righteous sacrifices and bulls will be offered on your altar, oh God.” He beckoned her. “Come, Valeria.”

Gathering her wits, she joined Elusius and followed him back through the gaol, but before they rounded the corner, she turned. The Pict watched her like a cornered wolf anticipating his chance to flee.

She pattered up the steps behind the bishop, sucking in a gasp of clean air. “There is no need for it to be so filthy.” She whipped around and faced the guard. “Why is the gaol in such a foul state?”

He shrugged. “Like the pigs it houses, my lady.”

“Oh?” Valeria’s eyebrows arched. “I shall take that up with my father immediately.”

She stormed off, but the bishop trudged after her. He tugged on her hand, slowing her pace. “Remember your place. A lady of nobility does act decisively, but only through the exercise of self-control.”

Valeria gave him a curt nod. “I’ve never seen anything the like.” Holding her head high, she focused on keeping her pace steady, though her heart pounded. Of course she was angry, yet there was a greater emotion that had the back of her neck burning. Fear. Oddly, it wasn’t fear
of
the Pict, but fear
for
him, and that made her even angrier.

“A gaol is meant to be a place of punishment,” the bishop added.

“A dog has better living quarters. By the stench, the straw has not been changed in months, if ever.”

Valeria climbed the steps to the principia and pushed past the guard. She flung open the doors to Vindolanda headquarters. A frown creased the general’s brow as he looked up from his meeting at a round table. The massive expanse of wood consumed two-thirds of the room. “Officers, please forgive my daughter’s intrusion.”

Biting her lip, Valeria curtseyed. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” She eyed her father. “If I could have a word when you recess. It is of utmost urgency.”

The general shot her a stern nod and she backed out of the hall, closing the doors with restrained anger. She hated waiting.

****

Taran stared at the sliver of daylight flickering through the slit at the top of the wall. He’d seen that highborn Roman woman twice now and each time she’d turned his burning hate of the Romans into a raging wildfire. Why had she shown interest in him? He could never have a woman like her, nor did he want a
Roman
.

“
De an t-ainm a tha oirbh?
What is yer name?” Greum teased from the adjoining cell.

“Shut it,” Taran growled.

“Have ye ever seen eyes the likes of hers? Shiny and black as obsidian they were.” Greum scooted closer, as far as his chains would allow. “I think she likes ye.”

“Ye’re the only one she paid a notion to,” said an inmate from across the aisle. “And you, the ugly bastard with the devil’s hair.”

Taran shook his head. “She’s Roman and she means not to the lot of us. We’re all condemned. Dreaming of a wench with raven’s hair will only plant fear in a man’s heart.”

“Aye, but ye liked her,” Greum pushed.

“I paid her no mind.” Taran ground his teeth. He didn’t want to like her. The last thing he needed right now was Greum’s bloody taunts, but the woman was exquisite. When he caught her sweet scent, he wanted to thrust his hand through the bars and pull her lips to his. Alas, he could afford no such foolish thoughts. Escape was the only thing he would allow his mind to consider, and he needed to come up with a plan quickly. Once he was tried, Romans never waited to execute a man.

Taran’s gut clenched. At least they didn’t just hang him and have it done with—their laws decreed they had to draw it out with a trial and make him suffer in their filth first. But that gave him time to engineer a plan.

When the ship had docked at Arbeia, he’d received a summons from the King of Gododdin. His sworn duty was to obey, lest he turn his back on his people, his birthright. He had no choice but to pry loose his shackles and run for home. What did these bloody Roman bastards know about family, about honor?