Celtic Maid (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 2) (18 page)

Elspeth strained through the trees to catch a glimpse of Titus. All but the Gale wore helmets, and she was too far away to distinguish him from the others.

She would know once they mounted. Titus wore a helmet with a sideways crest, which distinguished him as a centurion. A soldier kicked dirt over a fire. It wouldn’t be long before they headed into the open.

She pulled back behind the Pictish stone etched with the scene from a great battle. Sliding to her rear, she inspected her arrows while Og sniffed them. She’d be ready. The Picts could not be more than an hour behind. She poked her head around. The Romans were mounting. She crawled to her vantage point, lay flat and watched. Panting, Og dropped to his belly beside her. “Stay down, boy.”

Ten legionaries and the Gale rode out of the thicket. Not one wore the sideways crest.

A silent whistle slid past Elspeth’s lips. Titus was not with them. She rested her head and closed her eyes. Doubt quickly replaced her relief. Did Titus abhor her so much he could not be bothered with her capture? She had no experience with men, but his touch and the way his eyes had bored through to her soul could not have been imagined. How could he so easily cast his feelings aside?

A lump the size of her fist formed in Elspeth’s throat. Had he felt so betrayed and deceived he would refuse to ever see her again? She groaned. If only he would have visited her in the gaol to allow her to explain. She watched a wisp of cloud sail past. Mayhap she should have told him how she felt when he wrapped her in his arms. Would that have made a difference?

Unlikely. Titus was a highborn Roman centurion. To him, she was a barbarian from beyond the empire. There could be no future for them. She backed away from the ridge.

“Og, come.” Elspeth picked up her bow and headed to the horse. Her heart weighed heavily in her chest. Somehow she needed to stop pining for a man who could never be hers—a man she doubted she would ever see again. Perhaps she would talk to the queen about finding a match after all. That might help her get her head out of her arse.

Elspeth stuck to the ridge, following the Romans at a safe distance. She could ride out of sight for miles, and if she stuck to the ridge, she’d have a good vantage point for her arrows. These Romans were coming to kill her or take her back to Vindolanda to face a charge of treason—Titus wouldn’t save her—wouldn’t wrap her in his embrace and forgive all. He was one of
them
. The legionaries would sooner see her burned than feed her a slice of bread. Titus’s absence had made clear the fact she’d known from the beginning. Romans were ruthless tyrants and could never be trusted. She steeled her mind to the battle, for these butchers would not be returning.

The rumble of horse hooves sounded first. Elspeth ascended a crest. Picts approached in the distance. She cantered ahead and dismounted where a ledge overlooked the valley. She pulled an arrow out of her quiver and loaded her bow. “Og, sit.”

Patiently she waited, ready to fire. The dog whimpered, as if he knew a battle was about to begin. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Each breath hissed through her flaring nostrils. She was the best marksman in Dunpelder. She’d sworn an oath to protect her kin.
No Picts shall die this day.

She watched the Romans head straight toward King Taran and the wall of mounted Pict men, still hidden by the stony crag jutting up between them. When the legionaries rounded the corner, they would meet with a deadly surprise. She aimed, waiting for her chance.

The leading pair of soldiers rounded the bend.

Ahead, King Taran bellowed the battle cry, spurring his horse to a gallop.

The Romans responded, drawing their swords and surging forward.

Elspeth set her sights on the lead legionary. She yanked back her string and let her arrow fly. It pierced her target straight through the neck. The stunned soldier sat erect in his saddle for a moment and then tumbled to the side. Before she reached for another arrow, the two enemies collided with the grating sounds of iron scraping iron and roaring their cries of war. Elspeth searched for her next target in the midst of swinging swords and battleaxes.

Eying her next target, she released her arrow and watched it glance off a legionary’s breastplate. “Blast.”

She threw her hand back and snatched another. Neck shots were difficult when a soldier was fighting. Greum came into her view and she trained her arrow on his opponent. The legionary turned sideways, and she released the bowstring, skewering him as he raised his arm for a downward blow. Elspeth loaded her bow and inched down the hill, seeking her next opportunity. Through the bedlam, she caught sight of the Gale. He was wielding his sword against a Roman.
Good lad
…
he knows how to survive.

As expected, the battle was quickly won. With a scowl, Greum marched up hill. “What did ye think ye were doing, sneaking out of the keep and showing yer arse here…with me dog in tow?”

Scowling, Elspeth met him face-to-face. Blast her brother’s overprotectiveness. “It was me right to see these men dead. They aimed to take me back and burn me.”

Greum reached for her arm and whipped her around. “I’ll show ye who gives the orders in this family.” He thwacked her bottom.

Elspeth howled and twisted. “Stop ye miserable sheep-heid!”

“Hold yer ire, Greum,” Taran boomed. “The lass has a point.”

Elspeth wiggled away. “Ye see.”

Taran pointed directly at her. “Ye will receive yer punishment when we return to Dunpelder.”

Elspeth’s face burned.
It wouldn’t cross their minds to offer a word of thanks. Bloody hell
.

Taran headed back down the hill and addressed the Gale. “What is yer name, friend?”

“Colin, bastard son of me chieftain.” He removed his bonnet and bowed. “At yer service.”

Taran sheathed his sword. “How did ye come to scout for the Romans?”

“They beat down me door in the middle of the night and paid me in silver. ’Twas a job I couldna refuse.”

“And what is your allegiance to the Picts?”

“As a bastard, I ha’ no allegiance. Me da ran me out when I was but a lad to ensure I laid no claim to his lands.”

Greum stepped forward. “So ye ally yerself with the highest bidder?”

“Of sorts.”

“This time the price was yer life?” Seumas asked.

Colin scratched his chin. “I guess ye could say that.”

Taran held out his hand. “Ye’d best be on yer way then. Thank ye for standing beside us.”

Colin shook the hand that was offered but held on to it. “If I found the right home I could be loyal. Me farm’s in bad repair, and me life’s a lonely one.” His eyes drifted to Elspeth.

She quickly glanced away. The Picts would not barter for loyalty. It was in their blood. The disloyal paid with their lives.

Taran released his grip and pulled his hand away, stretching his fingers. “Ye’re welcome to join us in Dunpelder for the evening meal. The keep is nay far.”

He rubbed his stomach. “I’d be mighty thankful.”

“Then it is settled.” Taran mounted his horse. “Ye shall feast in the great hall, and we’ll celebrate our victory.”

Elspeth dashed up the hill, mounted her gelding and rode in close behind her brother—mindful to stay a length away from Greum’s reach. She wanted to hear what Colin had to say.

The Gale sat nearly as tall in the saddle as the king, and his head was nearly as red too. Taran trumped him in looks. The blue-eyed king could melt every female heart in a room with one smile.

“Hadrian’s Wall has been plagued by a band of pelt-wearing marauders,” Colin said.

“Aye. A mob of them attacked Houseteads the night we sprung Elspeth from the Roman gaol. We figured they would blame the diversion on us,” Greum said.

“Aye, I believe the Romans think the Picts are responsible for the lot.” Colin stretched back in his saddle. “Problem is there’s no tribe about that wears pelts.”

Taran swayed with his horse’s easy gait. “Me thinks it is a band of rogues, bent on making a stir for the bastards.”

“Me as well, but ’twill draw Roman attention to the Picts.”

“Och, ’tis all we need,” Taran growled.

Elspeth trotted her horse beside Colin so he might hear her. “Why was the centurion, Titus, not in your party?”

“The lassie does have a tongue.” Colin glanced back at her with a wolfish grin. “Titus received a missive ordering him to York. Right cranky he was ’bout it too.”

Elspeth tried to show no emotion and urged her horse to drop back among the other Pict warriors, her comrades. She needed to think. Titus would have been killed this day had he not been called to York. But now she knew he had been on her trail. He hadn’t simply sent a cohort of soldiers off to find her. A flutter tickled her insides, and that same flutter told her he cared. He’d not discarded her, not yet at least. Perhaps he hadn’t visited her in the gaol because he needed time to think. She held her palm over her heart, and a mighty weight lifted from her shoulders.

Never in her life would she have thought she’d be overjoyed because a Roman centurion had been summoned to York. That Titus had revealed his irritation to Colin actually caused her to sigh.

Chapter Thirteen

With an exhale of relief, Titus rode Petronius through Vindolanda’s gates. He’d been away from his post for a fortnight, and for naught. He dismounted and led the stallion into the stable, where he spied a legionary no older than eight and ten with a pitchfork. “Soldier, my horse needs a good curry comb and an extra bucket of oats.”

The boy raised his head. “Yes, sir. Good to see you back, sir.”

“Gratitude.” Titus nodded toward the boy’s well-muscled arms. “Your work’s making a man out of you I see.”

The legionary took the reins and grinned. “I’ll be fighting the barbarians soon, sir.”

“We shall see you trained well before we put your life on the line.” Titus shook his head and turned. Boys were always over anxious to join in with skilled soldiers and get themselves killed. He had been just like the young fellow once, though now he thought he would not miss his sword if he never felt its hilt in his hand again.

Passing the last stall, Titus stopped. The chestnut mare caught his attention—Elspeth’s mare. Titus opened the stall door and stepped inside. He ran his fingers through the filly’s mane, and the horse nickered. “I wish your lady were here too.”

He smoothed his hands down her spine. Well built, the mare had powerful muscles beneath the thick highland fur. “You are well bred, I will give you that.” A spark of interest assuaged his weariness. He ran his hands down the length of each leg and checked her hooves for soundness. “I do believe you would make a fine brood mare—could be a good match for Petronius.”

He called back to the stable hand. “Let me know when this mare comes into heat. I would like her to stand for my stallion.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was twilight, and the mess hall would be serving supper. Titus strode past the
principia
and started up the steps to the commander’s house. Bacchus hailed him from across the cobblestone lane. “Titus, a word.”

“Accompany me to my chamber. I must rid myself of this armor and enjoy a well-cooked meal for a change.”

“And how was York?”

“Full of backstabbers and politics.”

Bacchus chuckled. “I expected no less with Dulcitius present.”

Titus pushed through the door to his chamber. “What news of the escapee? Has she been captured?”

“No news of Elspeth, sir.”

Hearing her name made his heart twist into a knot. He averted his gaze to avoid betraying his disappointment. “Have there been any more attacks on the wall?” The command in his voice ebbed.

Bacchus removed his helmet and ran a hand over his hair. “The raids have gotten worse—two last night—Carrawburgh and Chesters.”

“I’ll be a son of a motherless dog.” The
optio
helped him pull his chainmail over his head and drape it across the bed. “And how many of these upstarts have you taken into custody?”

“None, sir. They sneak in, set fire and flee.”

“Where do you think they will strike tonight?”

“They seem to be heading east, sir.”

“Send word. Every milecastle is to man their battlements with all hands. I do not want legionaries marching along the wall-walks showing themselves. I want them hidden behind the merlons. That is the only way we shall catch them.”

“Right away, sir.”

“I want at least one alive.” Titus used a cloth to wipe the dust from his arms while Bacchus bowed and left to execute his orders. He never should have gone to York with things this bad. Tonight he would catch at least one of those vandals, and find out what tribe was behind these raids. He would stop them, and fast.

****

In the following days, Titus nearly drove himself mad pacing the
principia
, waiting for word from the legionaries who rode to the north. With no news of raids along the wall, he had no recourse but to bide the time. A man of action, he snatched up his discipline stick and headed to perform an overdue inspection.

Titus batted the stick in his hand while he picked through the shambles in the Vindolanda barracks. The men stood at attention as he barked orders to add shelves and hooks so that nothing would be stowed on the floor. He had proceeded halfway through the first block of cells when Bacchus strode up to him. “Sir, the Gale has returned. Alone.”

“Alone?” A rock dropped to the pit of Titus’s stomach. “Bring him to the
principia
at once.”

After passing the inspection duty to the
decanus
and making his expectations clear, he bounded into the headquarters. The Gale was already within, guards standing at each shoulder. Titus faced Colin and pointed his discipline stick under his chin. “I find it remarkable you have not returned with my contingent. You’d best have an infallible explanation.”

Colin placed his hand on the stick and pushed it down. “I was spared to bring ye a message.”

“Spared?” Titus’s gut roiled. “My men are dead?”