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

“Why are you here?” Titus tilted his head and strengthened the grip on his sword. “What are you doing in my chamber?”

“I’ve lost me family, me home’s been burned, everyone’s dead.” She wrung her hands. “I come to offer me services.”

Titus relaxed his stance, raking his eyes across her body. He swallowed hard when his gaze met her breasts, full and round, supported by a tiny waist that curved out into delicious womanly hips. The corner of his mouth turned up. “Ah.”
Is she…? No. She couldn’t be—her face is too innocent
.

The woman clasped her arms around her shoulders, hiding her breasts, and stepped back. “I-I didn’t mean
that
.” A hint of defiance flickered in her eyes. “I could prepare ye meals, make yer bed, wash yer clothes, clean yer
domus
.” She sounded a fair bit more self-assured than she had initially, though her arms remained tightly crossed. Even though she tried not to show it, he still sensed her fear.

Titus glanced away and swiped his hand over the back of his neck. “You’ve no cause to fear me.” He might be a Roman centurion, but one thing he could never abide was the mistreatment of a maid. True, he’d not enjoyed the pleasure of a woman beneath him since arriving in Britannia, but no matter how much the idea of a quick tumble with this comely lass appealed to him, he would never force her. He took a step forward and her scent pounced upon his senses with an unexpected jolt of lust.
Hades’s fire.
There was something feral in her scent—like a wildcat laced with jasmine. A tall woman, she was only a few inches shorter than he and built like a goddess.

Titus cleared his throat and forced himself to stare at her face. “What is your name?”

She dropped her arms to her sides and straightened. “Elspeth.”

“I’m Titus Augustus Romulus, Primus Centurion of the Twenty-second Legion.”

She swiped a strand of hair from her sultry eyes. “I ken who ye are.”

Caesar’s bones, did the woman have no idea how enticing she’d appear to a battle-weary soldier? “You’re a local girl?”

“Aye.”

“With no place to go? No family at all?” The last thing he needed to deal with was an orphan.
Why didn’t Bacchus stop her before she reached the commander’s quarters, and where is my miserable optio now?

She took a deep breath, and her eyes welled with tears.
Bloody hell, she’d better not cry
.

“None.” Her tone, barely audible, carried a sadness that tore out his heart. But she squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye just as a man would. “If ye’d allow me to prove me worth, ye wouldn’t be sorry. And I’d be no trouble.”

He smirked. “I doubt that.”

Titus sheathed his sword and took another step closer, resisting the ever-stronger scent of jasmine. Her eyes locked with his—the deep sapphire blue shimmering in the lamplight could mesmerize a marble statue of Adonis. She seemed so young compared to his one-and-thirty years. She smiled. Two dimples turned his knees to blasted boneless mollusks. Elspeth’s blue woolen gown was plain, but the color in her cheeks made the maid’s delicate face spring from the dress like a rose from its thorny bush.

He shoved his hands over his shortly cropped hair. “’Tis not—ah—’tis not proper for a woman to hide in my chamber, even less be holed up in a Roman Fort.”

She glanced downward with a frown. “Apologies, m’lord. I knew not what to do. Please let me serve ye. I have nowhere to go.” Her gaze fell to his arm and she gasped. “Ye’re injured.”

“’Tis nothing.”

“No. Yer wound needs tending.” She ran back to the dark corner and rummaged in a leather satchel. “I have a salve that will keep it from going putrid.”

“Bloody hell, the first thing you need to learn is obedience. If I say it is nothing, then you should leave it be.”

She looked up. “Oh no, not when it comes to injuries. Ye’ll see.”

Titus’s rebuke stopped at his lips. Confound it, no one ever back-talked to a centurion.
The woman shifted from fearing for her life to a bossy wench in the blink of an eye
. He glanced toward the door, knowing full well Bacchus would be snoring on his pallet by now. With no reasonable option but to humor her, Titus moved his fists to his hips and waited. Elspeth scurried up to him with a look of authority that reminded him of his mother. She grinned with those damned dimples. “Are ye going to sit or do ye want me to tend ye standing there like ye’re planning to recite a proclamation?”

Completely disarmed by her saucy response, Titus sat in the lone wooden chair near the hearth. He held out his arm. “’Tis merely a scratch,” he grumbled.

Elspeth studied the gash and hissed. “’Tis deep, but I cannot see bone.” She removed the cork from a small stoneware pot and dipped in two fingers. “Ye’ll feel much better when I’m done.”

Titus nodded and looked away. The salve stung, but the fingers that caressed him were as gentle as a feather brushing across his skin. She hummed a ballad, her voice cutting through the silence like a tiny bell, a voice so soft and pure it stunned him.
Soothing voice? Angelic face? Now I know I’m battle-weary—and I’ve been away from women far too long. Caesar’s bones, this girl is a barbarian savage. But her touch is so…nice.

He closed his eyes and gave in to her ministrations. Although Titus didn’t recognize the melody, her song melted away the sting, and the tension in his shoulders eased. He imagined those deft fingers massaging his back. The picture was so visceral, he sighed and relaxed. With such a light touch, she could make any man succumb to her charm, even if she weren’t created in the image of Aphrodite. What harm was there in allowing her to tend him? In the past two weeks he’d fought harder and lost more sleep than ever before—all while Count Theodosius and his obsequious centurion, Dulcitius, reclined in steamy Roman baths in the south.

Elspeth worked efficiently, tying a clean linen bandage around the wound. A hollow pall filled the room when her song ended. Titus could have lain back and listened to her sing forever. Her eyes met his when she finished. They remained connected for a moment, and Titus sucked in a gasp. Now that his face was inches from hers, Elspeth’s beauty was even more radiant. He reached out and brushed a finger across her silken cheek. In that moment, the fighting, the taking of Vindolanda—everything he’d achieved in the past year—no longer seemed to matter. Something connected them, something he’d never sensed before. His blood thrummed a fierce pulse beneath his skin.

When she blinked, he jerked his hand away.
Hellfire, I need to sleep
before I turn into a blubbering lunatic.

She didn’t move.

“Ye see. I can tend ye.” Her voice was low, almost sultry. Still holding his gaze, she stared at him expectantly.

Titus swallowed and stood. It was late. If he turned her out, she’d be pounced upon by a mob of lustful, drunken legionaries. Something deep inside him twisted. Yes, this was a barbarian lass, the enemy, but something in his blood demanded he protect her. No man would be forcing himself on her—not if Titus had a say in it and, most especially, not under his watch.

Vindolanda was a burnt-out shell, and his
domus
had suffered the worst of the looting. The fortress needed days—weeks of repairs. There was no place fitting within the walls for her to bed down. To turn his back on her plight would be unconscionable.
If I allow her to stay, I’ll only be performing my duty as a Christian. ’Tis how any loyal Roman subject should act. That is all.

Groaning, he clapped his hands on his thighs. “Blast it. Take my pallet. I shall sleep on my saddle blanket.”

She placed a dainty hand over her mouth. “Oh no, I couldn’t turn ye out of yer bed, m’lord.”

Back to being a shy, fearful maid, I see. How easily females can hop from one emotion to the next.

He held up a finger. “Not another word. I have been sleeping on it for a year, what is one more night? In the morning I will decide what is to be done with you.” His gaze fell to the knife in her belt. He held out his hand. “But I’ll take your blade first.”

Her eyes narrowed with the thin line of her lips. “If I give it to you, I’ll have no means to protect meself.”

“If I were going to harm you, you’d already be dead.” He spread his fingers demanding the knife. Titus didn’t rise to the post of centurion by being gullible. “I shall return it in the morn.”

Elspeth slowly removed the dagger with its scabbard, her jaw set. “And I’d not have tended yer wound had I wanted to cut yer throat.”

He snatched the weapon. She mightn’t be as helpless as she’d made out. After all, to slip into his chamber, she’d somehow made it through an entire contingent of men. He took a step back. “Unfortunately, in times of war, a soldier needs to take precautions.”

For the length of a heartbeat, he could see a fire flash in her eyes. But she said nothing and looked down again. Titus watched her a moment longer, trying to figure out what was it about this barbarian woman that made him so curious. He shook his head. He would have Bacchus find her a home on the morrow.

****

Elspeth gathered her cloak around her shoulders, clenched her fists and forced back her angry tears. The sound of Titus’s breathing grated in her ears like the sharpening wheel in the blacksmith’s shop. The centurion was the enemy. She’d sooner shoot the dragon-hearted swine with an arrow than serve him. But the great King Taran had commanded her to spy. He had grasped Elspeth by the shoulders and told her the safety of the Picts rested upon her ability to gather information on the Roman’s plans to wage war against her people.

Grasping her cloak tighter, Elspeth let out a small sigh of frustration. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to serve the king. It was an honor, a duty she would gladly perform to the best of her ability. After all, the men couldn’t spy because of the tattoos on their faces, and Elspeth was the best female warrior in Dunpelder. King Taran himself had said it when he’d chosen her. Her chest burned with pride at the memory. But that was precisely the problem—Elspeth was a warrior woman, an archer. Her face might not be tattooed like a Pict man’s, but she proudly bore the mark of her station with tattoos on her thighs. She’d earned her pair of matching archers serving the Picts. And now here she was, pleading her case as a maid to a filthy Roman. She clenched her teeth. Acting as a servant galled her. She would do it for her kin, but the sooner she returned to Dunpelder and resumed her place patrolling the wall-walk, the better.

She rolled over on the pallet, considering her current situation. Though she’d been instructed to work in the kitchens, her sense of reason prevailed.
What better way to garner information than to serve the centurion directly?
It had been a clever move, she was certain of it. It would help her see this whole thing done much faster. She nodded once, reassuring herself that she could do this.
’Tis an honor to be recognized for me warrior abilities, and now I must prove meself worthy and uphold the four corners of the Pict creed—honor, loyalty, duty, freedom.
Those words rang clear in her head until her frustration vanished. She vowed to live and die by them.

Titus’s breathing took on the deep, rumbling cadence of sleep. Her body stiffened. When she’d first seen the centurion’s face, Elspeth had barely been able to breathe, shocked by his raw masculinity. His skin appeared tanned and fiercely etched, as if he’d seen years of battle. It wasn’t an old face, but one that exuded unquestionable command. One that could abduct a woman’s heart. Worse, the power reflected in his face amplified his robust form. He was a potent man indeed. Hewn of well-defined muscle, he’d no doubt earned the title of centurion through colossal acts of Roman barbarism.

When he’d first entered the room, Elspeth had wanted to hate him, hate everything about him, but instead she’d hated herself for allowing a modicum of admiration. From her hiding place, she’d watched the dark, bold features, the square jaw that framed his stern countenance. Then she had gazed into his hawk-like hazel eyes. They’d pierced through her as if he’d already uncovered her ruse.

Elspeth shuddered.
What if he does uncover my secret? What will he do to me?
She shouldn’t be there, resting on
his
pallet. Not only was it dangerous, it was not appropriate.

She swallowed, unable to erase that first sight of him from her mind. It shamed her that she had not quashed her body’s reaction when he’d removed his chainmail. She should’ve been repulsed. And she was—repulsed by his position, by his allegiance, by his arrogance in thinking Britannia belonged to Rome, by how many local warriors he must have killed. Yes, she could and would hate the Primus Centurion.

But the man sleeping now in that room? The man who’d undressed while she hid in the dark? The man who hadn’t tried to take her life or her virtue? Against her better judgment, she had to admit that man didn’t repel her. Ashamed or not, she couldn’t deny her body had been drawn to his. Why, she’d nearly moaned out loud with the force of her thundering heartbeat when his chainmail had hit the floor. The fine leather underneath had stretched taut against his muscled chest. Never had she seen such power in a man, and the legs beneath his thigh-length Roman tunic were as solid as forged iron.

Why must such a fine specimen side with the enemy? Damn him to hell.

Elspeth shook her head. No matter how attractive Titus seemed to the eye, she knew better. She would make her body react to reason.
Never trust a Roman.

His breathing was louder now, almost a snore, and she shuddered. She loathed sharing a room with a stranger—a man! She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that she was spending the night enclosed in the same space as someone of the opposite sex. It seemed so strange, so….

She sighed. That, at least, was not something she could blame on the mission. If it hadn’t been for this task, she would’ve found herself sharing quarters with a man soon enough. At one-and-twenty, she knew her brother would be planning to arrange her marriage—a fact that endlessly had her stomach twisted in knots. Elspeth was a warrior, a Pict, and with a bow she wielded unsurpassed accuracy, yet she would be wed just like every other lass in the region of Gododdin. How she wished she’d been born a lad like her elder brother, Greum. With her parents dead, she’d never learned the finer skills expected of a woman. She could stitch up wounds, but otherwise, sewing bored her mind into inertia. Now she’d let on that she could cook.