Celtic Maid (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 2)
Read Celtic Maid (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 2) Online
Authors: Amy Jarecki
Celtic Maid
Honor ~ Loyalty ~ Duty ~ Freedom
by
Amy Jarecki
Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series, Book Two
Copyright © 2014, Amy Jarecki
Celtic Maid
Media > Books > Fiction > Romance Novels
Keywords: historical romance, highlander, ancient world, roman, sexy warrior, Pict, forbidden love, steamy, Scottish romance, action adventure
Digital ISBN: 978-1-62237-372-7
Digital Release: December 2014
Editor, Gabriela Lessa
Cover Design by Calliope-Designs.com
Stock art by Shutterstock.com and Thinkstockphotos.com
All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
This edition is published by agreement with Turquoise Morning Press, a division of Turquoise Morning, LLC, PO Box 43958, Louisville, KY 40253-0958.
Table of Contents
CELTIC MAID
Can a loyal soldier of Rome follow his heart?
Primus Centurion Titus Augustus Romulus has fought tirelessly to reclaim Hadrian’s Wall from the clutches of the barbarians. Once his goal is achieved, he sets his sights on a long awaited advancement to lead the entire Roman province of Britannia. But when Elspeth stows away in his chamber, things begin to go awry. As time passes, he uncovers the mysterious warrior woman’s talents…until she’s exposed as a Pict spy.
Elspeth has been bred to hate Romans. Never would she allow her heart to betray her code of loyalty. But Titus’s stare raking across her body sends shivers over her skin. For a moment, she loses herself in the rugged centurion’s allure…until her world crumbles.
Can an ardent soldier of Rome gain the courage to turn his back on his duty? Love versus honor clash as Titus battles all sides in a fight to uncover the truth, invoke justice and follow his heart.
Chapter One
During the Barbarian Conspiracy, the indigenous tribes of Britannia conquered and held Hadrian’s Wall for an entire year. Though the Romans were driven across the channel, their mighty armies would not be quelled for long. Emperor Valentinian appointed the ambitious Count Theodosius and his fearsome centurions to regain control across Britannia and once again maintain order across the eighty-mile wall that marked the very edge of the empire.
Roman Britannia, the year of our Lord 368
His muscles burned like bare feet in searing sand. Titus shook off his fatigue and swung his Roman short sword with practiced precision. The fearless warhorse beneath him thundered forward. To his left, he brandished his shield and defended a blow from a battleax, then sliced through the unprotected neck sinews of a rank barbarian to his right.
Every inch of his body was splattered with blood and streaming sweat. He’d been fighting since dawn, and the prize was now in sight. Ahead, the walls of Vindolanda—his target—loomed. After a year of marching, fighting, and beating down the wretched savages, he would finally secure Hadrian’s Wall and establish his command post at Fort Vindolanda.
“The enemy flees,” Bacchus boomed from the rear.
With no oncoming attackers remaining to fight, Titus spun his horse toward his
optio
—his deputy and most trusted legionary. Bacchus pointed at the barbarians running for the trees. Exhaling, Titus lowered his sword.
He scanned the horizon. Aside from a few skirmishes, the fighting had ended. His men either lay bleeding or hunched over supporting themselves on their knees, sucking in labored breaths. The stench of death sickened him, as did the sight of his loyal men lying cut open on the battlefield. “’Tis no time for rest. Tend to the wounded and secure the stronghold. No man standing shall lay his head down until the fortress is safeguarded to my satisfaction.”
The early spring air cooled the fire raging beneath his skin. Titus motioned his head toward the enormous fort. Impressed with the grand expanse of sturdy Roman-built walls awash with lime, he sat a bit taller on his horse while pride swelled in his chest. He’d dedicated his life to the army. It was empowering to be there in the wild frontier of the empire, gazing at architecture of such magnificence it rivaled that of the great Aqueduct. This victory made the past year of relentless fighting worthwhile.
Bacchus followed Titus through the splintered fortress gates. They rode through his new command post while Titus issued a barrage of orders, pointing out necessary repairs. The charred remains of barracks marked by hollow stone walls disgusted him.
How quickly the savages have decimated Roman walls, erected by the blood and sweat of my predecessors.
“Have the men tend to their quarters once security is established. A legionary must have a place to hang his helmet and rest his head.”
“Yes, sir, but what of
your
quarters?” Bacchus gestured toward the commander’s house—door missing, orange shutters askew.
“’Tis not our first priority.” Titus rode on to the next building, one in equal disarray. “I will inspect the
principia
anon.”
He tied his horse and marched up the stone steps of his new headquarters, removing his helmet adorned with the red-and-white sideways horsehair crest that identified him as Primus Centurion. With a frown, he paraded through the interior of the
principia
, his gaze darting as he took inventory of broken furniture and filth. “The mongrels have plundered the silver and smashed what they couldn’t haul on their backs.”
The sweaty black curls plastered to Bacchus’s head jostled with his nod. “The bastards occupied this place for but a year and look at it. They have no respect for fine Roman architecture.”
“What did you expect? They live in hovels and have no discipline. I’m amazed the fort is not in worse condition. ’Tis a wonder they managed to conspire to overthrow Hadrian’s Wall at all.”
“True. Fullofaudes must have been slack in his command.”
Titus cared not for any disrespect given a Roman officer, no matter the circumstances. “I remember the Dux as a rugged general,” he said in a tone that allowed no further discussion. Bacchus nodded and said nothing.
Titus tested a wooden chair for soundness and sat. “The barbarians did join together—and in a time of assumed peace. The uprising hit us across the entire Empire and many good men lost their lives.” He examined a gash on his forearm and shook off the sting—it could wait. “’Tis a good thing their infighting resumed, else we may not have reclaimed the frontier so easily.”
A page clamored into the office. “Sentries report the wall has come under Roman control from Arbeia to Houseteads, sir.”
Titus leaned forward. “What of the west? Has Icarus secured Cavoran and beyond?”
“I’ve received no news from the Centurion, sir.”
“When word comes, ride to York and share the news with Count Theodosius.” The sentry turned to take his leave, but Titus stopped him. “Soldier, I expect you to return with a missive as to the timing of the count’s visit.”
“Yes, sir.”
With the man’s departure, Bacchus chuckled. “From the ease with which you took the wall, Theodosius will appoint you
Dux Britanniarum
, no doubt.”
Titus’s stomach clamped into a ball. He would show no avarice in the presence of his
optio
. He scratched the stubble that had grown since the prior morning’s shave. “There are other men hungrier for the post than I, and they have the ear of the count.”
“But you are the
praefectus legionis
—the Centurion Primus Pilus, not to mention the most highborn.”
“True, though Dulcitius is a firstborn son of a general.” The truth was Titus salivated at the possibility of a promotion. Though the youngest son of Senator and former General Flavius Augustus Romulus, Titus was the strongest warrior and proved a better tactician than any other in the Twenty-second Legion, a fact exemplified by his assignment to take back the wall that marked the border of Roman Britannia. But he didn’t like men who coveted the glory of exalted rank and he would tolerate no such weakness in himself. He waved his hand dismissively. “Have you nothing to occupy yourself with? I did not get here by smacking my lips in anticipation of recognition. I am a loyal subject of the Empire and will carry out my duty no matter my rank.”
Bacchus bowed. “I’ll see what stores remain in the granary, sir.”
“Months of work lie ahead of us,” Titus called after him and then took a swig from his waterskin. With a guttural sigh, he hefted himself out of the chair and grabbed his wooden discipline stick. He’d worn the handle smooth on the mahogany bat he carried when moving amongst his legionaries.
Titus marched through the fortress, discussing repairs with his men. He congratulated them on their success and reminded them that though the fighting might be at an end, the rebuilding would need their focused attention.
Well after dark, he made it back to his quarters and fashioned a pallet of straw to sleep upon until he could obtain a bed—Bacchus would see to that soon. The glow from a fat-burning lamp made shadows dance across the walls. He unclasped the leather harness displaying the disk-shaped medals across his chest and abdomen and removed the heavy mail armor from atop his leather doublet. The doeskin clung to his chest like a glove. Titus sighed. It was rare for him to be this battle-worn.
Sudden movement in a far corner caught his eye. Fatigue forgotten, he snatched his sword from its scabbard in one swift motion. “Show yourself, thief.”
He focused on the dark corner and closed in with caution, blood pulsing beneath his skin as it did before a fight. His vision adjusted to the dim light. A trembling figure crouched in the corner, the whites of his eyes round as marbles.
“Come into the light before I run you through.” Sensing the boy’s fear, Titus lowered his sword slightly. “If you come forward now, I’ll not harm you.”
Clothing rustled as the boy stood and sidestepped around him, moving into the glow of the lamp.
Titus gasped. This was no boy. He narrowed his eyes. The maid’s long hair flickered auburn with the light, and she made gasping noises with each shallow breath.
“Who. Are. You?” Titus over-pronounced so that she might understand his Latin. She was pretty for a barbarian. He read the fear in her wide eyes—fear not so different than that on a face of a man when he realized he was about to be run through. But Titus would never raise a hand against a woman.
Her gaze darted toward the door. “I-I’ve been waiting for yer lordship.”
He took a step closer. “You speak Latin?”
Odd
.
“Aye.” She fingered the knife on her belt. “It has not been long since Roman soldiers patrolled these lands.”