Gladiator Heart (2 page)

“A rather tempting creature, wouldn’t you say?” Angus raked his gaze over her body, lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath the sheer linen tunic.

“No doubt their women are beautiful,” the dark one agreed. “But venomous as snakes.”

“We set out in search of a trophy,” Angus said, boldly stepping closer to her. “Let’s hope she’ll be as pleasing to the bed as she is to the eye.”

A silent understanding was exchanged between the men, and then the dark one seized her by the arm, pulling her roughly against him.

“You’ll come with us,” he said in her language.

Valeria didn’t have time to be frightened like she was supposed to because she was momentarily stunned at hearing him speak to her. From behind her, a woolen cloth was pulled over her head, blocking out the world and leaving her in darkness. There was the sound of leather creaking as the men mounted their horses, and then she was dragged up by one of them, stretched face down over his lap.

With a nudge to their horses, the riders once again tore off through the frozen forest with thundering hooves, and Valeria as their captured prize. What end was in store for her, only the Gods knew.

The Pict army made camp deep in the safety of the forest. Their nighttime attack on the Roman fort had taken the enemy by surprise, but still the Emperor Constantine had managed to escape. Any remaining survivors of the battle had been captured, and those who couldn’t be ransomed to Rome would be sold or traded as slaves to the neighboring tribes. If they survived that long.

The destruction of the fort at the wall sent a firm message to Rome from the people they sought to wipe off the face of the Earth.

They would not be taken. They would not be enslaved. They were born free men, and they would die as free men.

Tristan Caileanach was the commander of this great army, and because he was a good leader, the men were loyal and would fight for him to the death. Now he made his usual rounds among the tents, making certain his men were securing the camp and treating any of their wounded. Large fires burned bright and warm, cooking meat from deer, rabbit and wild boar, if one could be found. The horses had been watered and rested at the far end of the camp. Overall, the feeling was one of contentment, and the men glowed with the victory of their recent battle. They slugged down honeyed ale and caroused boisterously while they compared weapons and counted their kills.

This far into winter, the day was a cold one, and Tristan felt the need to head back to the comforts of his tent. He grew weary from a war he feared would never end. Rome kept on coming, and the Picts kept on fighting them back. Would there be a day when they could live in peace once again? A day when they could tend their lands and raise their children without fear of having everything they worked for destroyed by the greed of one Empire?

Tristan was headed to his tent when Angus, his second-in-command and his most-trusted friend, came through the camp, walking towards him with long, purposeful strides. He wore a fur pelt draped over his wide shoulders and his tawny hair was as always gathered in a braid that hung down his back. His golden beard had gotten so long Tristan was thinking of suggesting he trim the length.

“Surely the Gods have blessed you.” Angus stabbed his legionary spear into the frozen ground and went down on one knee before Tristan. “I am honored to go to war with you on this day, and on any other day.”

Tristan was equally honored to have this noble warrior at his side. They had known each other ever since they were young lads, and as they grew up together they went from playing warrior games with rocks and wooden sticks, to fighting real games with weapons of steel and fire. They had quickly come to learn that in these games of men, when one went down, he stayed down.

Forever.

Tristan guarded his friend’s back with the same loyal devotion Angus employed inguarding his.

“Where have you been all morning?” he wondered of his friend, motioning with his hand for him to stop all this posturing about and get to his feet.

“I’ve been out riding.” Angus rose up, and a slight, knowing twinkle gleamed in his icy blue eyes. “I’ve got something for you.”

Tristan knew that look boded some form of mischief. Intrigued, he decided to play along and see what Angus was up to. “Show me what you have, my friend.”

When they reached Tristan’s tent, Angus held aside the heavy fur pelt covering the doorway and let him enter first. It didn’t take his eyes long to adjust to the dim interior and focus on the woman seated on the ground in the corner. She was clothed in only a light linen tunic, and her arms were tied behind her and secured to one of the wooden tent posts. Her long blonde hair was a matted mass of curls. She turned her head to look at him as he came inside.

Even dirty and disheveled, her beauty was overwhelming. She had a delicate face with a slender, dainty nose. Her eyes were a deep, deep blue and reminded him of a calm, summer sea. Her sooty dark lashes swept across high cheekbones that flushed with the same shade of pink as her lips. Full, luscious lips made just for a man’s kiss. Beneath her tunic he could see the outline of her body and the suggestion of soft, ripe curves and long, supple legs.

A violent shudder racked through him and he felt a familiar stirring in his loins. He went tense all over, his desire riding him as if he’d never had a woman before. He wanted her.

“We found her in the forest,” Angus said. “Thought she might amuse you.”

At Tristan’s impatient look, Angus ducked out of the tent and draped the fur pelt back over the door. Tristan glanced briefly at the woman, afraid her beauty had been an illusion, a bewitching trick played by the low light, but no, he still had a very beautiful woman in his tent. He removed his furs and tossed them over a chair by the table next to the warming fire. He rolled the sleeves of his tunic back to his elbows and began to wash in the basin on the stand, splashing cold water over his face a few times to remove the grime and dirt and blood.

As he dried himself with a towel, his gaze drifted to the woman like it had been pulled there. He admired how she kept a proud, rigid profile despite the fact that she sat tied to a tent post. He dried his hands and tossed the towel on the table.

“What’s your name?” he asked in her native language, knowing she’d not understand his.

She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him or to answer him.

Angered by her show of insolence, Tristan raised his voice. “Did you not hear me?”

Valeria heard him just fine. His deep voice was smooth, but insistent, and he spoke her language fluently. Could all of these savages speak it?

“You just killed two legions of my countrymen.” She laced her tone with all the venom she could muster. “I have nothing to say to you.”

She turned her head aside and faced the leather wall of the tent, afraid to look at him. The quick glimpse she’d gotten in the dim lighting had set her heart racing. The man was tall and strong and handsome. The feelings he stirred up in her were not things she should feel for her enemy. An enemy who could easily kill her.

He came over to where she sat and squatted down, bringing his face level with hers. “Will you not tell me your name?”

Valeria dared to look at him. His auburn hair hung straight and long around his shoulders, and his rugged, handsome face was covered by a trim, brassy beard. He couldn’t be too many years older than she. Her gaze drifted to his firm, sensual lips.

Why did she find the brutish savage so handsome?

“What care do you have for names?” She lifted her gaze and boldly met his stare. “You’re a savage.”

His grey eyes darkened as he held her gaze. Though there was a youthful, almost boyish glint in his eyes, he exuded potent masculinity, making her quite aware of her own gentle femininity. Her stomach twisted into nervous knots and her pulse quickened. Was this fear she was feeling, or something else?

“I have to guess you’re of patrician rank” he said, his voice low and smooth. His penetrating gaze roamed over her face and hair. “The sheer arrogance in your tone is enough to make any slave cower, but I am not a slave.”

Valeria turned away from him again to stare at the side of the tent. She was amazed by how well he was able to read her. What could this barbarian possibly know of Rome or people of her class?

Giving a heavy sigh, he rose and walked back to the table. He picked at some of the meat on the platter and took a long swallow from his flagon of ale, staring at her over the rim. She guessed he was the leader of this army, for he held himself with the same arrogant airs he accused her of having.

Angus came back into the tent, letting in a rush of cold air. Valeria shivered, but the bone-deep chill in her body had succumbed to the warmth the tent provided.

“There’s a prisoner giving us some trouble,” Angus said.

The man set down his flagon of ale, never taking his eyes from Valeria. “Wait for me outside.”

He stared harshly at her, and this time she didn’t turn away from him. She’d assumed he’d killed every last person at the fort. The idea that he’d taken prisoners never occurred to her. Picts weren’t known to leave their enemies alive, they had no dignity, but she sensed this man did.

“You Romans are nothing but trouble,” he griped.

“And you’re nothing but a killer!” she shot back at him with a bravery she didn’t quite feel.

His expression hardened with fury. He charged over to her and once again came down in front of her. “What is your name?”

Valeria pulled her knees to her chest to put some semblance of a barrier between them. She knew little of this great warrior and feared what the man might do when angered, so she decided it wise to answer him. “Valeria.”

“Are you afraid, Valeria?”

She held his gaze for a moment, studying him. “Should I be?”

“I’ve witnessed many men in your situation who were willing to trade anything for their lives.”

“What do you want?” She braced herself for his answer. The anticipation was grinding away at her nerves.

“I want what all men want,” he replied. “To live as I choose.”

She was left with nothing else to say. His answer was honest and straightforward, and not at all what she expected to hear from a barbarian savage.

“Give me no trouble and you’ll have no reason to fear me.” His dark gaze swept over her once more, gentling a degree. “You’re the only Roman I’ve been so generous with.”

He stood, towering above her on the ground, then picked up one of his furs before sweeping out of the tent and leaving her alone, tied to the wooden post. She knew it was only a matter of time before he killed her.

Tristan followed Angus through the camp to the tent where the prisoners were being held. A clamor of loud voices and commotion came from inside. He entered the tent, and three of his men were sent crashing into him, almost knocking him to the ground. He kept his feet and demanded, “What the devil is going on in here?”

Among the prisoners huddled together, a large man with a shaved head had broken his bonds and wasn’t letting anyone get near him. He’d been stripped of his armor and weapons and wore only a coarse, brown tunic, but he still looked like a mighty warrior. A mighty, angry warrior. He towered over most of the men and his arms and legs were thick and solid like tree trunks, bulging with muscles. His eyes blazed with hatred as he looked at Tristan.

“You are the leader?” he asked in Tristan’s language.

“Yes.” Tristan nodded. “What’s the trouble here?” His men were under strict orders not to harm or harass the prisoners.

“Let the girl go.” It was more like a warning than a demand.

Tristan hadn’t expected this. How did the man know of Valeria? Was this her brother? Her husband? It didn’t matter. She was his prisoner and he’d do as he pleased with her.

“What girl is that?” He met the man’s trenchant stare without flinching.

“You know damn well the girl I speak of!” the man bellowed in a rage, causing those close to him to step back in alarm. “Your men talk of her.” The muscles in his thick neck strained and his face reddened. “How many times have you violated her already?”

Tristan admired the spirit of this warrior. Strong, loyal, and courageous. If he wasn’t a Roman, Tristan might ask him to join his army. “Why do you concern yourself with the girl?”

“I’m sworn to protect her,” he grated through clenched teeth. “Be sure, any man here who touches her will know my wrath.” His expression was thunderous as he stood there, tall and seething with fury.

“What can you do about it?” Tristan laughed, and some of his men joined in with him. “You’re a prisoner, soon to be sold into slavery, if you can survive the cold. Save your vengeance for a more worthy battle.”

The man lowered his bald head and plowed through the barrier of soldiers, growling like a feral beast as he charged straight for Tristan. The tent erupted in chaos as the other prisoners cheered him on, while the soldiers tried to hold him back. Tristan drew the broadsword from the sheath at his waist, ready to meet the attack, but Angus and Talorc stepped in front of him, swords at the ready.

“Stand down!” Angus shouted, prepared to fell the great warrior if necessary.

The man didn’t stop his charge. “I’ll take all of you to hell with me!”

“You will stand down now!” Tristan raged in a deep voice that rang clear and full of authority. “Or I will see to it that the girl suffers. I’ll have my men show her a thing or two about Pict hospitality.”

The threat was good because the man halted his attack. His expression remained forbidding as he stared at Tristan. “Take pleasure from this moment, for the next time we meet, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

It was obvious the man cared for his charge, so how had she gotten separated from him? What had the woman been doing this far north in the first place? There was much Tristan wanted to know about his unwilling guest.

“Secure the prisoner.” He barked the order, then left and headed back to his tent.

He intended to get more from Valeria than her name this time.

The coarse rope of her bonds chafed painfully every time she moved, leaving her skin damaged and raw. Valeria was going to go crazy if she had to stay tied up for much longer. She was hungry and tired. Her muscles were cramped and sore. Trying to work her hands free had only caused the ropes to go tighter and had planted a splinter from the wooden post into her palm.