Love's Blazing Ecstasy (29 page)

“No. I can’t go back, I can’t,” she murmured to herself. Heedless of the pain, she hobbled forward, struggling to escape from her captor, but she was no match for Burrus. She felt strong arms lift her up onto a horse and cried out her anger.

“Let me go! Let me go!” she shouted furiously, her arms flying about as she fought to be free. It mattered not that it was the kindhearted centurion holding her thus. At this moment he was the enemy and the only obstacle to her liberty.

Burrus struggled with the Celtic girl, nearly losing his balance and falling from his horse. In her rage, she was acting much like one who has panicked while drowning, her hair flying wildly about, stinging his eyes. Try as he might, he could not subdue her.

“Forgive me, Ice Princess,” he whispered, and hit her a stinging blow to the chin that knocked her unconscious.

Wynne opened her eyes slowly and looked around. She was lying on the ground in the Roman soldiers’ camp. The ropes which bound her bit into her flesh as she fought frantically against them.

“Don’t struggle,” she heard a voice say, and looked into the eyes of one of the older
Romans.

Her jaw was aflame where she had been hit, yet she would not give vent to tears. She would  not give up! Never! She would try again to get away.

“You have cost us a horse,” the man said with anger. “It escaped into the wilderness. From now on you will have to either walk or ride behind one of the soldiers.”

“And if I cannot?” she asked, motioning to her injured leg.

“I will put you out of your misery as I would a horse,” he said with a malicious grin. “I despise you and your kind. You have cost me many a comrades during battle.”

Wynne gasped. “But I am not a horse, to be killed for a hurt leg.”

“Do not try me, Celt, for I am not as soft as the centurion Burrus!” He gave her a sour look and then stalked away, leaving her stunned and horrified. These Romans were worse than the Brigantes. At least the Brigantes would not hurt women.

“You
Roman dog,” she whispered beneath her breath, “I will get away from you. Oh, how I hate you!” Even Burrus, whom she thought to be her friend, had hurt her. Angrily she turned her head away when she saw the centurion approaching her.

Burrus knelt down and offered her some bread and wine, but she ignored him. When he touched her shoulder gently, she cringed as if he had burned her.

“I’m sorry that you are angry with me, Ice Princess,” Burrus said softly. “I did what had to be done. As much as I like and admire you and wish you could be free, you are my prisoner and, for now, the property of my tribune. I could not let you go. And what would have happened to you in the hands of the Brigantes? Please try to understand.”

At these words Wynne faced him, her lovely face marred by her scowl. “I understand that we are enemies!”

Burrus shook his head. “No, we are not enemies. Whether you know it or not, I am your friend. Someday I will be able to help you to be free, but now is not the time. Trust me, Ice Princess.”

Wynne’s eyes softened, she longed for his friendship and needed an ally among these
Romans, yet she had trusted a Roman once and he had betrayed her. She remained silent.

Burrus gently touched her chin. “I hope I did not hurt you too much. Believe it or not, it caused me anguish to do what I did.” He could see a dark bruise on her fair skin and felt a flash of remorse.

Wynne’s eyes were haunted as she looked at him. “Please, let me go,” she said softly. “I would rather be dead than Severus’ slave.”

Burrus clenched his fists and closed his eyes. “The gods know that I would if I could, but I cannot.”

Remembering the words spoken by the gruff guard, she motioned toward her foot. “They will kill me, like a lame horse. Will you be sorry then?”

“No one will harm you,” he answered, amused until he saw the fear in her eyes.

“He said that if I could not walk he would kill me, like an animal.” Her eyes strayed in the direction of the soldier who had told her this.

Burrus fought to control his rage at the other man. “While I am alive, no one will touch a hair on your head! He merely said that to frighten you. You will not be killed, Wynne, but if he ever comes near you again, I want you to let me know and I will reckon with him. No
w, if you can promise me that you’ll not try to escape again, I’ll leave your hands and feet unbound.”

Wynne was silent for a moment as she considered whether she could honestly agree not to run again.

At last a smile spread over her face. “All right, “ she said. Burrus cared about her; he had proved it tonight. “Thank you,
friend
,” she whispered, closing her eyes and trailing off into sleep. That night for the first time in a long while she slept without nightmares to haunt her slumber.

Chapter Forty-Two

Six days of exhaustion and pain had passed before Wynne reached her destination.
She had been forced to walk part of the way, but the rest of the distance had been astride Burrus’ horse, riding together with the young centurion. He had been kind to her, letting her ride his horse alone while he walked part of the journey. Food rations had begun to dwindle and the soldiers had no time to hunt, and thus Wynne often felt the pangs of hunger, but so did the rest of the party.

Now, looking to the horizon, Wynne could see the tents of the camp at Eboracum. From the distance they appeared to be bright-colored flowers in bloom, but nevertheless she viewed them with trepidation.  What would happen once she arrived?  What kind of people were inside the
Roman village?

“There it is.
Eboracum.  We are almost there, Wynne,” Burrus said to her, putting a hand on her shoulder as if he understood her anxiety.

“Yes, we are almost there,” she echoed.
She was bone-weary, but, but the worst of the journey was over. They would reach the camp before nightfall. 

Wynne had grown used to the friendship and talk she shared with the young
Roman soldier. He had seemed to enjoy teaching her new words and phrases in his language and praised her intelligence and insight.  She turned around and saw him studying her now.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“That I hate to arrive in the camp dirty, smelling like the horse,” she answered, running a hand through her grimy hair. “In my father’s village I bathed often.”

Burrus understood her plight, his eyes searching for a stream. “There,” he said spotting a likely place that was secluded by trees. “You can clean yourself there. He helped her climb on the horse and led her off in that direction.

Unfortunately it was also the destination of the men who needed to water the horses. The tilt of her chin reflected her pride and stubbornness as she refused to get down from the horse.  Her eyes strayed to where the men waited upon their mounts.

“I’ll make certain that they don’t watch you,” Burrus promised. “You will have your privacy.” He led her to a clearing by the stream which was sheltered by a grove of trees, still green from the summer rains.

“Will you watch?” Wynne asked with suspicion.

“No. Not if you give me your word once more that you will not flee. Will you?”

Though she was tempted to try another escape, Wynne nodded. In spite of all that had happened to her, all the Romans had done, she liked this young man. She would not lie to him. Besides, her reason told her that there was really no place for her to run to.

Taking off her cloak and tunic and hanging them from the branch of a tree, putting her foot coverings with their untanned leather and fur lining on a flat rock, she found a shallow place in the stream and waded into the freezing cold water.  Standing in her underskirt, she bent down to wash her face and hands, then her arms, and lastly her hair, swishing her golden mane about in the frothy current. She squeezed the water out of her hair and let it dry in the noonday sun. It was a warm day for this time of year, and Wynne thanked the goddess for this blessing. Using a twig, she soon had the tangles out of her hair and gloried in the feel of its silken
threads against her bare back as she walked to the shore.

Untying the drawstring of her skirt, she lifted it over her head and stood naked in the warmth of the sun. She laid her underskirt in the sun to dry and again waded into the water, deeper this time splashing water up over her body until her skin tingled. Never would she let herself be this dirty again.

When at last she was dressed again, she walked back out to where Burrus awaited her. If he had thought her lovely before, he knew her to be beautiful now, with her hair blowing about her shoulders like spun gold.
Careful, Burrus,
he cautioned himself. He must remember that she did not, could not, belong to him. She was Severus’ slave.

“Let’s go,” he said curtly, trying hard to hide his true feelings; and together they walked to where the soldiers of the century awaited them, once more to start out to Eboracum.

Burrus’
pace quickened as they reached the outskirts of the camp. He was anxious to be rid of Wynne. It was torture for him to feel her breasts against his back, her arms enfolding him, without being able to make her his.

Riding into the camp, they
were greeted by three men, their faces grim and unsmiling.

“How goes it?”
Burrus asked, to be met with a surprising answer.

“Terrible. The tribune will have all our heads,” a short gap-toothed cavalryman replied. At Burrus’s look of  surprise, he explained that the centurion they had imprisoned had escaped several days ago, and although they had searched near and far for him, he had not been recaptured.

It took all Burrus’s self-control not to smile at this news, but he managed a frown. “He must be found,” he said.

“We have looked for him everywhere, but he has vanished like the wind.” The soldier replied, eyeing the young woman who rode behind the new centurion. He was not bold enough to ask who she was, but his instincts told him that she was the new concubine for Severus Cicero. Burrus heard him say beneath his breath, “The Tribune has all the luck
to have found that one.”

Yes, Severus certainly has all the luck,
Burrus thought in agreement.

Getting off his horse, Burrus gently lifted Wynne from her perch atop the horse. “We are here,” he announced softly, as if she didn’t already know.  Suddenly he felt tongue-tied and the touch of their bodies from head to toe aroused his desires.  Once again he wished with all his heart that she could belong to him.

With frightened eyes Wynne took in the camp, focusing on the soldiers—so many of them. She had not seen so many armored men since the attack on her people that fateful day. Sensing her fear, Burrus inquired as to where she was to be lodged and then escorted her to the large comfortable tent where she would stay to wait for Severus’ return. Here were all the comforts of a Roman villa: curtains of silk, pillowed couches, fine rugs to keep out the damp of the ground and to keep in the heat from the small portable wood stove.

Looking around her, Wynne shuddered. To her it was a place full of foreboding. She could almost envision Severus sitting upon the pillows. Instinctively she clutched Burrus’s hand tightly.

“I do not like it here,” she said simply.

He comforted her as one would a child, patting her hand and murmuring soothing words. He might have gathered her into the security of his arms but they were interrupted by a young guard.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, handing Burrus a small roll of parchment. “I was to give you this immediately upon your arrival.”

Drawing away from Wynne, Burrus scanned the missive, his eyes large with surprise. “So, I am to have a slave,” he said as he read Valerian’s words. “No doubt she is an old hag who he fears will be left to starve without a master.”  That seemed to be the kind of ill-luck he was usually destined to have.  “Well, bring her to my tent immediately. I
will meet you there,” he said; then thinking again, he called back the guard. Perhaps this slave could befriend Wynne; perhaps a friend, a motherly woman would benefit her. “On second thought, bring her here.”

Burrus set about trying to make Wynne feel at home in her new surroundings, reassuring her all the while and explaining that she was to have a companion, one of her own people. Hearing a rustle behind him, he turned around, astonished at the sight of one of the loveliest young women he had ever seen before—as charming a vision in her own way as Wynne. His eyes appraised her curly red-gold hair hanging down below her shoulders, the large lash-fringed eyes, like the costliest jade in a perfect setting, the full, nearly round face, and the small turned-up nose. Then his eyes took in her tall and graceful body with slim hips and small, high breasts.

“I am Meghan,” she said with a slight bow. “Your slave.”

Burrus smiled. “Perhaps, lovely Meghan, my stay here will not be as lonely as I once thought.”

Wynne’s eyes met Meghan’s and both women sensed that they had met a friend. The two smiled warmly at each other, utterly unaware that they were connected not merely by their similar plights, but by their memories of the amber-eyed Roman, Valerian.