Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1)
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Authors: Amy Jarecki
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Rescued by the Celtic Warrior
Honor~Loyalty~Duty~Freedom
by
Amy Jarecki
Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series
Copyright © 2014, Amy Jarecki
Jarecki, Amy
Rescued by the Celtic Warrior
Media > Books > Fiction > Romance Novels
Category/Tags: romance, historical, Scottish, Celtic, highlander, Roman, forbidden love
Digital ISBN: 978-1-62237-341-3
Digital release: September 2014
Editor, Gabriela Lessa
Cover Design by Calliope-Designs.com
Stock art by Hot Damn Stock Photos-The Killion Group,
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.
DEDICATION
To my editor, Gabriela Lessa. She is always a pleasure to work with.
* D P G R O U P . O R G *
Table of Contents
RESCUED BY THE CELTIC WARRIOR
After arriving in Roman Britannia, Valeria is captured by savages. She prays the Romans will find her—but it’s Taran, a Pict warrior, who comes to Valeria’s rescue and ignites an unquenchable flame of passion that fills her soul.
Highborn and privileged, Valeria has never known life outside her father’s Roman fortress. But when Hadrian’s Wall falls, Valeria’s world shatters.
Ripped from her bed, she’s captured by savages. Terrified, she prays her betrothed will mount a rescue. But it is the enemy, a Pict with Celtic tattoos and hair of fire who wields his sword and fights for her freedom.
When she seeks refuge in the warrior’s stronghold, the Picts eye her with distrust and force her to earn her keep as a commoner. But the longer Valeria remains, the more agonizing it becomes to conceal her burning love for the Celtic warrior.
In the year of our Lord 367, the Picts were the ruling force in Scotland. Untamable they were, and Emperor Hadrian had shut them out by building a wall across the northern frontier of Britannia. For two hundred years, the Romans were successful in keeping the savages at bay, until the entire border fell in the Barbarian Conspiracy.
Britannia, the year of our Lord 367
Unable to wait a moment longer, Valeria slid aside the wooden shutter and popped her head out the Roman carriage window. At last, the stone battlements of Fort Vindolanda loomed ahead. She laughed aloud and pointed, encouraging both Pia and Bishop Elusius to join in her excitement. “Can you see the immense fortress walls? I cannot believe we shall see Father after so many years.”
Joyful anticipation leapt across her skin. As the carriage continued further, Valeria clapped a hand over her mouth and gasped. The scene before the heavy gates quashed her delight.
Twenty paces away, four legionaries savagely wielded whips against a man in shackles, hunched over, arms wrapped around his head.
“And we call our soldiers civilized?” Though she desperately wanted to enter Vindolanda and be reunited with her father, no Christian noblewoman would allow such demonstration of untoward brutality to pass. “Stop the carriage.” Valeria shoved aside her cloak and jerked down the latch before her companions could say a word. Unassisted, she leapt to the cobblestones.
“Valeria,” Pia and the bishop chorused from the carriage, but she paid them no mind.
She marched up to the soldiers, fists clenched. “In the name of Emperor Valentinian, stop.”
The red horsehair crest on the soldier’s helmet shuddered when he whipped around and faced her, eyes fierce as a hawk. “And who the blazes are you?”
“I—”
He lunged forward and seized her wrist. Valeria fought to pull away but his fingers bore into her flesh.
“Unhand her,” Bishop Elusius roared from behind.
The soldier scowled. “This woman is meddling where she has no business.”
The bishop’s white toga billowed in the wind as he strode toward them. “The lady is Valeria Fullofaudes, niece of Emperor Valentinian, daughter of our leader, the Dux Britanniarum himself.”
The soldier’s grip immediately released. His stunned expression revealed his horror. “A-apologies, my lady.”
Valeria glared. “One should think before striking out.” She rubbed her arm and smoothed her peplos gown. Pushing away her long black tresses, she turned to assess the prisoner.
Her breath caught, followed by a stuttering of her heart.
The man was enormous. He stood at least a head, possibly two, taller than his captors. His hair flickered with highlights of fire, and she feared her fingers might sear if she touched it. Valeria leaned forward to better inspect him. Catching the hint of spice as wild as the forest made something stir deep inside. Her eyes narrowed. On his right cheek, an intricate swirling Celtic tattoo of blue extended down his neck and under the laces of his quilted surcoat. Valeria’s fingers itched to touch it.
Her stomach squeezed when his gaze met hers. Crystal clear, blue as the Mediterranean at its shallowest point, his eyes pierced through her heart like an arrow. He held her stare until a savage strike with a lash sent him stumbling forward.
Valeria jumped in front of the soldier, shielding the prisoner from another blow. “Stop, I said.”
“He’s headed for the gallows, this one.”
Her gaze strayed to the auburn-haired man. He locked eyes with her again. For an instant, the soldiers, Elusius, everyone faded into oblivion. The prisoner bowed, his aqua pools of blue unwavering in unspoken thanks. Two soldiers latched onto his elbows and pulled him away. Helpless, she watched them lead him toward the gates.
The bishop placed his hand on Valeria’s shoulder. “Your carriage awaits, my lady.”
Valeria shot him a look. Her heart still thundered in her ears, but the tension eased at the holy man’s gentle expression.
“We only need to ride through the gates and our journey will be complete at last,” he said.
She blinked.
Of course
. Butterflies of excitement tickled her insides. “I cannot wait to see Father.” She looped her arm through his and allowed Bishop Elusius to assist her into the carriage. She took her seat beside Pia, her trusted slave.
The bishop sat across from them. “ʼTis probably not the most ladylike thing to leap from a carriage and rush to a Pict’s rescue.”
Valeria glanced through the window, but the soldiers had moved the prisoner out of sight. “That man is a Pict? A barbarian from beyond the realm?”
“Yes, he bears the blue mark of his heritage. Our soldiers report that of all the barbarian tribes, they are the fiercest warriors in battle—worse than the Gaels. They’re the reason Emperor Hadrian chose to build the wall here. Picts reside to the north. Untamable, they are.” The bishop rested his palm atop Valeria’s hand. “You need to suppress the fire blazing behind your lovely raven eyes. Please sit back, my lady.”
Valeria slipped her hand away and rubbed it. “How can people impart their convictions with no fire behind their motivation?” Knitting her brows, she reclined beside Pia’s matronly frame, clad in a slave’s veil and grey tunic. Valeria wondered what crime the savage Pict had committed. It had been over two hundred years since Hadrian had erected the wall across the northern frontier of Britannia and they were still
untamable
, unable to recognize the culture and sophistication of Rome?
Moments later, the heavy gates of the fort creaked open. After having endured three months of travel from Rome to Northumberland, she would finally enter her father’s garrison, Vindolanda.
She inched to the edge of her seat when the carriage rattled over the cobblestones. Craning her neck, she pointed at the principia, headquarters of Roman Britannia. “See, Pia? We will be with Father momentarily.”
The slave patted Valeria’s arm. “Yes, child. I can hardly believe our adventure is nearly at an end.”
“An end? Whatever do you mean? It has only just begun.” Valeria grinned at the careworn face of the beloved woman who doted on her every need since the day of her birth, eight and ten years ago.
When the carriage rolled to a stop, Bishop Elusius lumbered down the stairs and offered Valeria his hand. She alighted from the uncomfortable wooden cart that had entrapped her like a tomb for the past three months. She giggled at the battle-weary face of her father, beaming as he raced down the steps, his impeccable leather and bronze uniform accenting his robust physique. General Argus Maximus Fullofaudes, Dux Britanniarum, spread his arms wide. Falling into his embrace, Valeria noted his curly locks had greyed in the three years of his absence.
“How could this be my darling child? You have grown into a beautiful woman.”
“Yes, Papa.” Valeria bit her bottom lip. It unnerved her how her father could make heat inflame her cheeks.
“Let me have a good look at you.” He grasped her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “You are as beautiful as your mother and still have her fathomless eyes, I see.”
Valeria’s heart squeezed at the mention of Mama. “I miss her.”
His pointer finger lifted her chin. “As do I, and now you are all I have left.”
With strong arms, he drew her in. She closed her eyes and inhaled—leather and masculine sweat.
Papa
. Valeria was hit by a flood of memories of her father before he’d been called away and assigned to the far reaches of the Roman frontier. She hadn’t expected her tears to well. She cleared her throat and buried her face in his shoulder to hide them.
“Bishop,” Argus said, pulling from Valeria’s grasp. “How was your journey?”
“Long and arduous.” The holy man rubbed his backside. “These old bones will do well with a soft bed this night.”
Valeria stepped forward. “We could all benefit from a week of nights upon a real bed.”
“Ah yes, you must be exhausted. I’ll have Bacchus show you to your quarters. You can rest before supper.”
Valeria nodded, but the scene from the courtyard needled at the back of her mind. “Papa, we saw a Pict bound in shackles. His hair was the color of fire.”
The Dux frowned. “Ah yes, the oarsman.”
“What crime did he commit to require an escort of four Roman soldiers bearing whips?”
He pressed his hand to the small of her back and led her inside the immense oak double doors. “Desertion.”
“Oh? He didn’t look like a soldier to me.”
“He was assigned to the Navy. When his warship arrived in port, he broke his leg shackles and fled.”