Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1) (31 page)

A powerful yearning clamped hard in Taran’s groin and radiated up through his chest. “Come, we need to find her before someone else does.”

“She could run into trouble if she reaches the wall. Even our kinsmen won’t understand her importance if you’re not beside her.”

“Aye. She’ll probably try to cross through Vindolanda, since they’ve seen her there. That would be her best chance for success, but she’s likely to run into harm anywhere.”

Mounting, Taran spurred Blackie forward and Stag took the lead, the dog’s shoulders hunched against the rain. He looked like a miserable giant rat plodding though the mud, the stench of wet dog wafting behind him.

“That’s far enough,” a gruff voice warned from nowhere.

Taran flashed a pained grimace at Greum. Leaning forward, he urged Blackie into a pounding gallop, drawing his sword, hoping the assailant was alone. With Greum on his heels, he thundered through the dense forest. Cold rain stung Taran’s face, hands, every inch of exposed skin.

From the sound of the hoof beats, not one man, but a mob chased them. Ice ran up Taran’s spine. There were too many to count, he had to outrun them.

The forest thinned and Taran glanced over his shoulder. The blighters were losing ground, but Greum’s gelding lagged.

“Keep up yer pace,” Greum shouted. “We’re gaining ground.”

“Run, Stag!”

The dog dashed off through the underbrush. Taran knew he’d follow at a distance. If he stayed, the mutt would be the first to feel the cold iron of a Saxon arrow.

Whipping his gaze forward, Taran yanked the reins back. Blackie’s hindquarters dipped in a skidding stop. In front of them lay a clearing with a mob of men mounted in a semicircle. The bastards had driven them right into a trap. He spurred Blackie right, but they cut them off. He looked left. No place to run. The mob encroached. Blackie reared. Taran pulled him round in a circle and steered next to Greum’s gelding.

Through the sheets of driving rain, the grungy bunch of Saxons looked like hungry wolves. The stench of filthy male bodies moved closer. Taran’s eyes darted around the circle to find their weakest link.

“You’re trespassing on Saxon land, Pict.”

Taran glanced from a boy about the age of Tomas, to a ruddy black-bearded cur, dressed in a leather tunic with a Roman helmet crunched down upon his oversized head.

Taran tried for diplomacy. “Me friend and I are just passing through. We mean you no harm.”

“Passing through, is it? Or are you scouting so you can come back and slit our throats?”

The men behind the bearded Saxon growled like sailors, shouting for blood.

“That’s a fine mount you have. I think he would make a start at paying the toll.”

“How ʼbout I keep me mount and we pretend me friend and I never passed through this place?” Taran’s eyes continued to dart around the circle.

“Oh no, now that would never do. You see, your mount is only part of the toll.” The man’s eyes drifted down, studying Taran’s physique. “I think the men need some sport.” He turned to the bedraggled peasant beside him. “Go fetch Midget.”

The men roared with laughter, jutting their swords into the air, calling Midget’s name. The knot in Taran’s gut told him he’d prefer not to meet the oaf.

The Saxon motioned for silence, his black eyes meeting Taran’s. “You’ll fight to the death. If you lose, well…” He scratched his beard with dirty fingernails, raindrops showering his breastplate. “…you’ll be dead, and we’ll kill your scrawny friend. If you win, we’ll give you a head start before my men make sport of gutting you.”

With an unwashed face and a missing tooth, a dirty cur cackled. He lurched forward and snatched Blackie’s reins. Taran dismounted and the man wrapped his gnarled fingers around Taran’s bicep and squeezed. “This will be good sport indeed.” He turned to his kinsmen, raising his voice. “The Pict’s a fighter. He might last long enough for a contest worth watching.”

Taran jerked his arm away and snarled at the wretch. The idiot skittered backward while the men around him stepped in with taunts and challenges. Taran snatched Blackie’s reins from the toothless weasel. Handing them to Greum, he growled under his breath, “Be ready. The lad’s the weakest link.”

Jaw set, Greum nodded once but kept his eyes on Taran. Looking toward the young boy would give away their plan, pathetic as it was.

A tremor in the earth reverberated up through Taran’s legs. At first, he thought lightning struck the ground. He whipped around and caught sight of Midget. From the ravings of the men, Taran had guessed Midget was big, but this was an ogre of inhuman proportions. The shaggy giant stood at least twenty-one hands compared to Taran’s eighteen—a full Roman foot taller.

The bull-headed brute roared with laughter, beating his chest as he marched through the rain into the circle. His trunk as broad as Blackie’s, he wore a pilfered Roman breastplate held in place with straps of leather. About the only thing the armor protected was the giant’s heart. His tunic stretched with each stride of his tree-trunk legs, and Taran appraised his quarry with dread. If the match was a duel of brute strength, he was as good as dead.

Taran grasped his sword with both hands, facing him. With each step, Midget’s feet sucked up mud as his massive arm reached across his body and extracted his sword from its scabbard. With a sinister scowl, baring his yellow teeth, the giant hurled forward without pause, wielding his sword down with a force that whizzed through the air like the crack of a bullwhip.

Taran darted aside, drawing the brute away from Blackie. Midget pivoted after him with lightning speed. Taran miscalculated the big man’s quickness, assuming his bulk would slow him down. Taran whipped around to face him. Met by a downward blow, Taran could only lob out with his sword to deflect a mortal injury. The tip of Midget’s sword sliced through his side. Hot blood gushed from the wound.

The crowd roared with laughter.

“Give us a real fight, Pict.”

“You’re not long for this world.”

“Your hair of fire will send you straight to the bowels of hell.”

Taran stumbled backward, regaining his stance. Midget didn’t let up, but charged in, brandishing his sword over his head. Raising his blade, Taran deflected the blow. The strength of the downward motion knocked the weapon from Taran’s hand.

He caught the deadly glint in the Saxon’s eye as he dove through the mud for it. Midget moved in. Taran hurled his body at the giant who stood as solid as an ancient oak. Midget crashed the hilt of his sword into Taran’s shoulder. Sharp pain vibrated down his spine, but Taran held his grasp. He drew his knee up and slammed it into the only soft spot on the ogre’s body.

Midget wailed in pain, doubling over, grabbing his crotch.

Taran dove for his blade and spun around, kicking the sword out of Midget’s hand. The force of his kick sent Taran sliding through the mud. Fighting to keep his feet under him, he pushed against the momentum and faced his foe, legs now planted solidly beneath.

Midget recovered his sword and rocketed forward, his weapon leveled with Taran’s heart. Taran sucked in a wail and paused, eyes boring through his target. Time stopped. He could not misjudge. Midget’s assault would be fatal if the giant connected. Just as the big man’s sword came within a hand’s breadth of Taran’s chest, the Pict King dropped to his knees and thrust his blade up between Midget’s arms. Taran’s plunged under the beast’s breastplate. Embedding it deep, Taran cut though cartilage and reached his mark.

Midget’s body barreled forward with the momentum of his attack. Taran ducked under him, clinging to his sword with every ounce of strength in his arms. Taran didn’t look back to see if the brute was dead. His instincts told him to run. Now.

His legs fought the mud as he spotted Greum. Taran leapt onto Blackie and Greum led the way, bounding toward the unsuspecting youth. Taran saw the boy dive to the side as Blackie took a leap and cleared the circle.

The horses bounded northward. Trees slapped at Taran’s face while the stinging rain pelted through him. “Stag,” he roared, aware the dog was probably already on his heels.

They weren’t out of this yet. Thundering of hoof beats clamored behind them.

Valeria led Elusius up the slope of a craggy hill to a fissure. A large shelf protruded above, far enough for them to gain shelter from the driving rain. With the moist air, the bishop’s cough returned as they huddled together.

Sheets of rain cascaded down from the shelf like a waterfall—would it never end? Her clothes soaked through, she shivered, wishing she could snuggle into Taran’s warm body. The Pict king had enough internal heat to warm an entire room.

From their vantage point, Valeria could see for miles. All that lay ahead was the wilderness of the reaches of the Roman frontier, and though Elusius was at her side, she felt alone. The last time she’d eaten, they’d been at Una’s roundhouse. Her stomach growled, punishing her for thinking of food.

She doubted Elusius knew anything about sustaining oneself in the wild. “I’m starved,” she said.

“As soon as this rain lets up we can hunt for food. There are likely to be mushrooms nearby.”

“I could eat a whole chicken by myself.”

“We could set a snare and catch a rabbit.”

She arched her eyebrows. “You know how to make a snare?”

The bishop smiled. “I’ve not always been old, nor have I always been a priest. I grew up on a farm. Give me a leather thong and I shall trap you a rabbit.”

The rain began to ease and Valeria used her dirk to cut a slim piece of leather from one of Mia’s reins. She followed the bishop into the woods and watched him work. He drove three sticks into the ground and pulled down a sapling he tied to a stick-trigger. On the floor of the trap, he made a circle with the thong, the end fitting through a loop he fashioned with a slipknot. He took a moderately thick branch in his hand and gave Valeria a wink. “Let us see if it works.”

To test his trap, he reached in and tapped the stick trigger. The sapling snapped up and the thong tightened around his branch, just as it would around its prey.

Valeria clasped her hands together. “ʼTis unbelievable.”

“Did you doubt me?”

He reset the snare and piled some fresh grass in the center of the loop. “Let us see what food we can gather while we wait.”

It didn’t take much foraging to find good mushrooms and dandelion leaves. Valeria happened upon a patch of wild strawberries and dropped to her knees, shoving the little berries in her mouth as fast as she could pick them. Her saliva gushed from the sweet tartness and she wiped her chin with her sleeve. How mortified her mother would have been to see her cramming her mouth like a savage.

Her dress had once been light beige, but now was a muddy brown. She looked filthier than a street urchin in Rome. Even the peasant women in Britannia wore finer garments than the rags that presently draped her body. She bent her head toward her shoulder and sniffed. Coughing at her own pungent odor, she sincerely hoped the baths at Vindolanda were still in working order.

The sun had begun to peek through the clouds. Momentarily satiated on strawberries and mushrooms, Valeria strolled through the wood, finding a swollen brook. She removed her slippers and hiked up her skirts. Stepping into the ice-cold water, she pivoted in a circle. She was completely alone.

She couldn’t resist the temptation to remove her still-damp dress and crouch into the water. First she used the garment to scrub her own flesh as best she could. She rinsed her tangled hair, running her fingers through the knots to free them. Without a comb, she imagined she must look like a haggard witch, hardly a sight Taran would find pleasing.

As she scrubbed her dress against a rock, the memory of Taran’s naked body beside the pond came flooding back. She felt a tightening low in her belly. The feeling was familiar now. She knew it was longing.

If only she’d known about the rite to become a Pict before they’d left Dunpelder, she wouldn’t be in this situation. She wouldn’t have killed Quintus. She might even be a Pict by now, spending her nights in Taran’s bed. The picture of his beautiful naked body had burned an image on her soul, creating an unquenchable deep desire. Her thoughts of him were so blissful and pure, they could never be sinful.

The idea of being in his bed ripped through her like a river churning over massive boulders, heading for a long cascade of a waterfall. She pressed her hands against her lower midsection in an attempt to quell the wildfire raging within.

She wanted Taran so badly it was torture to think of him. That she might be able to pass their test and become a Pict gave her hope. But at the same time, the anticipation of possible failure and humiliation made it difficult for her to breathe.

What if the Votadini Tribe made a spectacle out of her ineptitude and banished her from Gododdin? What then? She could not allow herself to think of it.

Valeria stepped out of the stream and wrapped her arms around her body, shivering. She hated the lack of control she had when her thoughts turned to Taran. Her longing was like a disease that possessed her. Could she lie with him before the Elders decided to send her back to Rome? That experience would leave her with a memory of a lifetime, but would strip her of the only bargaining chip for her future survival.
My heavens, if only I had been born in another time and place, my thoughts would not stray so.