Celtic Maid (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 2) (25 page)

Bacchus stomped his foot. “That traitorous bastard. He will be hanged for sedition.”

“We must get word to the count before Dulcitius learns Josias is dead. I imagine they were routinely communicating. Post a guard here to intercept any missives heading this way.”

Titus inked a quill and used Petronius’s saddle as a makeshift desk while he scrawled a quick note. After the ink dried, he folded the field missive and inscribed his mark on the outside, rather than a waxed seal. He handed it to Bacchus. “I want you to run this to York yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let no one stop you.”

With a salute, Bacchus turned to the men. “
Decanus
, post a sentry duty here for a fortnight. You are in charge.”

Titus mounted Petronius. “Come, Sprite. My legionaries have it in hand here.”

****

Elspeth breathed a sigh of relief when Titus led her away. Once alone with him, she wouldn’t need to pretend to be a man and could let her hair fall away from that scratchy hood. When sure no one had followed, she lifted up her shirt and inspected her wound. Though it wept, the bleeding had mostly stopped. She could probably use a stich or two in the center of her belly. Thankfully, she was fortunate the blade had only grazed her skin.

Worst of all, her shirt and trousers were covered with blood. She would need to wash them before they returned to Vindolanda.

“If you had not been injured, I would have traveled to York myself.”

Elspeth’s ears piqued. She sensed a tone of irritation in Titus’s voice. She knew he was angry she had ignored his orders, but surely her efforts had allayed his concerns. He rode ahead and she could not see his face. “Do not let me prevent ye from visiting the count. I can take care of meself.”

Titus stopped and faced her. Anger reflected in his eyes, and something else.
Fear
. “Elspeth. If anything had happened to you…” His eyes dropped to her blood-splattered shirt. “If you had been killed, I would not be able to live with myself.” He spurred Petronius forward. “I will take you to Vindolanda. You can recuperate in your chamber.”

“Do ye think that wise?”

“If you stay within your chamber, no one should know.” He glowered at Elspeth over his shoulder. “It will be dark soon. Only the guards will see you if we ride straight to my quarters. Pull your hood back over your head. Evil lurks in these woods.”

She groaned. “Very well.” But her insides leapt—she’d be closer to Titus in her old chamber.

As he predicted, it was dark when they trotted through the gates of Vindolanda. After they reached the stable, Elspeth leaned forward to dismount.

“Stay.” Titus hopped off Petronius and made a quick tour of the stalls to ensure no one was watching. Returning, he reached up and pulled Elspeth into his arms, cradling her like a small child. He said nothing, bounded up the steps and headed straight for his chamber. He pulled aside the silk curtains that shrouded his bed.

“I cannot,” she said.

He stacked the pillows and rested her against them. “You will stay here while I stitch your wound.”

He opened his sideboard and pulled a pitcher of wine. He filled a goblet and handed it to her. “This will take the edge off your pain.”

“Wine? I have never tasted it.”

“No? In Rome, women refrain from drinking spirits as well.”

“The only spirit we drink at Dunpelder is mead. Picts believe it fortifies the soul.” Elspeth sipped. Initially, the sour bite made her scrunch her nose, but the fruity flavor that lingered made her thirst for more. She took another sip, this time more pleasant, and the liquid warmed her as it slid down her throat.

When the goblet was empty, she sat up and swooned. “Oh my, I believe wine is more potent than mead.”

“That it is.” Titus smiled and sat beside her, a whalebone needle and thread in his hand. “How long has it been since you ate?”

“I had a bite of a chicken leg before I killed Josias.”

Titus cringed. “Ah. Wine is not good on an empty stomach.” He held up the needle. “I shall call for food once I stich your wound.”

Elspeth squirmed and pressed against the pillows. “Me thinks it will heal without sewing.”

Titus raised her shirt and examined the cut in the candlelight. Elspeth tried not to hiss when he separated the skin with his thumb and forefinger. “If we do nothing, it will tear open the next time you mount your horse.” He straightened and looked into her eyes. Her insides melted. Those hazel eyes were so serious yet caring, loving. He blinked slowly, his long lashes shuttering his thoughts, and he leaned in and kissed her forehead. “I do not want to hurt you.”

She’d let him do anything when he looked at her like that. “Then fill up another goblet of wine and make quick work of it.”

Titus complied and allowed her a few gulps before he took the vessel and set it on the bedside table. The sting of the needle made Elspeth’s eyes cross, and she hiccupped with a jolt.

“Be still. I nearly pierced you clean through.”

Elspeth tried to hold her breath while he whisked the needle around, tying off three ragged stitches. Titus clipped the thread with a small pair of scissors, and Elspeth exhaled. “I thought I was going to faint afore ye finished the last knot.” She reached for the goblet of wine and skulled the remainder. Her belly felt like it had been stung by a hundred angry hornets. She’d forced herself not to twitch while he probed that nasty piece of whalebone through her flesh. A drop of wine was the nearest thing to take the edge off her pain.

“Easy there,” Titus cautioned, but he refilled her goblet and emptied the silver pitcher. He took a sip, and she pulled it from his hands.

“I like wine. ’Tis sweeter than mead.”

“And as you mentioned ’tis more potent. If you do not slow down, you shall have an unbearable headache come morning.” Titus tried to pull the goblet away, and she thwacked him up the side of his head with her free hand. “Wha—?”

“’Tis mine.” Elspeth cupped it with both hands and guzzled. She handed him the dregs and giggled. “Left a bit for ye.”

“Gratitude.” Titus swirled the drop that remained. “Remind me to lock up the wine casks when we are married.”

Elspeth threw her head back and roared with laughter, but excruciating pain caused her to bend over and grab her gut. “That hurts worse than me da’s lash.”

Titus placed his hands on her shoulders. “You had better rest. It will feel better on the morrow.”

Elspeth arched her back and kissed his lips, giggling again. “Ye do not want to pleasure me, oh highborn centurion?”

Closing his eyes, he languidly returned her kiss, letting out a satisfied sigh. His tongue swirled into her mouth, and his taste laced with delicious wine. Elspeth’s breasts grew instantly heavy—full with desire. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him toward her. But he did not yield to her beckoning. He raised his head and kissed her forehead. “Not this night, my love. You must heal first.”

Elspeth folded her arms and looked away. A hiccup jolted her from her pout. Titus took her hand between his palms and raised it to his lips. “When this business with Dulcitius is finished, we will travel to Dunpelder, and I will ask your brother for your hand.”

“I will not stand by and allow him to tell ye no.”

“There is nothing to worry about, my love. I can be quite convincing, even if I am a Roman.”

“If ye’re not going to make passionate love to me this night, have ye anymore wine?”

It was Titus’s turn for rolling laughter, and he climbed over the bed and lay on his side facing her. “I definitely will lock up the wine casks when we are wed.”

The warmth of his body drew her closer. Elspeth curled up in his arms and yawned. “When we are wed… Those words sound like a fanciful dream.”

Chapter Eighteen

Dulcitius had left York and headed north to the abandoned stone cottage as soon as he’d received word from Paulus. He’d known it would only be a matter of time before that idiot, Josias faltered. But the man’s ineptitude mattered not. Dulcitius’s plans were falling into place. Before he met his end, Josias had caused enough damage to Titus’s reputation. The count would have no choice but to dismiss the centurion as a candidate for
Dux Britanniarum
.

When he arrived at the cottage, Dulcitius dismounted, straightened his armor and pushed through the door. Six of his most trusted men—his inner circle of legionary spies—guarded a badly beaten and bloodied Bacchus. With his hands and feet shackled, Titus’s
optio
hunched over clutching his elbows against his sides as if he might have a cracked rib or two.

Dulcitius bit back his urge to dance around the prisoner with glee. Titus’s faithful
optio
had fallen into his hands? A soldier stepped forward and handed him a folded piece of vellum. “He was carrying this, sir.”

Dulcitius reached for the missive while studying the prisoner.

Bacchus spat a wad of blood and glared at him with the one eye that was not swollen shut. “You are a traitor to Rome. Whatever you do to me, Titus will bring you to justice.”

Dulcitius had never liked Bacchus. He glanced at the missive, addressed to the count, written in Titus’s bold hand, bearing his field mark:

The rebel responsible for the raids on the frontier milecastles has been apprehended and put to death. Unfortunately, this is far from the end. We have uncovered deception in the highest ranks of our legion. I must meet with you in confidence forthwith…

He need not read another word. Crumpling the parchment, Dulcitius chuckled. “Titus will be dead before he has a chance to bend the miserable count’s ear.” He turned to his legionary. “Stone him and ensure the body is never found.”

Bacchus struggled against soldiers who restrained him. “You send me to the death of a traitor? I am a loyal servant of Rome!” He crouched and launched himself backward, twisting free from the hands of his captors. All six legionaries drew their swords and surrounded him.

Dulcitius smirked at the condemned man’s fight. He eyed a soldier and ran his pointer finger across his throat. The legionary nodded his understanding. When Dulcitius turned to leave, the familiar squish of iron cutting though flesh followed by a gut-wrenching grunt told him Bacchus would never plague him again.

Paulus followed Dulcitius to the tethered horses. “Murdering Titus’s
optio
? Do you think that wise?”

Dulcitius whipped around and faced him. “You dare question me?”

Paulus bowed—
smart of him
. “Merely looking out for our necks, my lord.”

“I was ridding Britannia of a traitor.” He unbuckled his horse’s girth and tightened it. “Remember the riches that will come to you, Paulus. Continue to do my bidding, and you will become a wealthy man.”

The
optio’s
face reddened. “Yes, sir, but do you consider Theodosius so dim-witted he’ll not sniff out the truth?”

“The count only has his riches in Rome on his mind.” Dulcitius refastened the buckle and slapped the horse’s rump. “But I shall pay him a visit before he hears of this from another.”

****

The following day, dressed in his finest armor with his helmet clutched under his arm, Dulcitius waited for the tribune to announce him. He smirked. Named for his father, Tribune Flavius Theodosius, the young officer had Papa’s power behind him. He had no need to prove himself in battle. All he had to do was follow in the wake of great warriors like Dulcitius and claim glory.

Dulcitius hated to wait for anyone, even the count. He had grown tired of playing up to the older man, agreeing with his every directive like a dog. It was time for the count to return to Rome, but not before Dulcitius ensured he was named
Dux Britanniarum
. He would no longer take orders from a highborn, flippant cur whose sense of entitlement oozed from his misshapen superiority.

The tribune finally opened the door. “The count will see you now.”

“Your father is busy today, young pup?” Dulcitius brushed past him and assumed a countenance of grave importance. “Greetings, sir.” He kissed Theodosius on both cheeks.

The count eyed him with bland concern. “What news have you that requires my immediate attention? From the furrow in your brow I assume it is nothing good.”

Dulcitius pulled a forged missive from beneath his armor. “’Tis grave news indeed. It appears Titus cannot bring peace to the border. Stanwix to the west has been sacked.” He passed the missive to the count, who studied the mark. “I fear the uprising will never end.”

Theodosius knit his brows. “Who delivered this missive?”

“Titus’s
optio
carried it himself.”

“And where is he now?”

Dulcitius shrugged. “Returning north, I imagine. I told him I would pass the vellum to you personally since he seemed anxious to return to his century.”

“I do not like it.” Theodosius frowned. “I would have preferred to question the
optio
myself.” He turned and sat in his upholstered throne and gestured to a chair beside it. “Sit. I have received a missive from the Emperor.”

Dulcitius’s stomach squelched with an explosion of glee, though kept his face deadpan. “Oh?”

“He desires me to replace Jovinus as the
Magister Equitum Praesentalis
.”

Dulcitius feigned a gasp. “A great honor, sir.”

“Yes, but I do not care for the idea of leaving Britannia when barbarians are still sacking our forts on the northern frontier.” He scratched his chin. “You must send a cohort north to quash this rebellion once and for all. I either underestimated the problems we would face from the indigenous or overestimated Titus’s ability to manage such a vast area of responsibility.”

Dulcitius nodded thoughtfully while his insides continued to dance.

Theodosius poured two goblets of wine and passed one to Dulcitius. “I have made my decision.” He held up his goblet. “You shall carry on as
Dux Britanniarum
.”

At last.
Dulcitius raised his wine. “You bring honor to my house, my lord. I will not let you down.”