Love's Blazing Ecstasy (3 page)

The irony of the situation hit him and he laughed softly. He, Valerian Quillon, who could have any woman, could charm the wings off a dove, was here alone with a highly desirable woman and could not make her understand his words of passion.

At the sound of his laughter Wynne smiled at him. Her teeth, he noticed, like the rest of her, were perfect, white and even. “You must talk slowly,” she said.  “I know some of your words…”

“Then you will understand me when I tell you, thank you!”  Realizing that he had spoken too fast he repeated, “Thank you,” then asked, “are you a goddess.”

She laughed again, calling to mind her own deities—fire, wind, earth, water.  “No, I am not a goddess.”

The image of the young woman’s daring rescue of him came again to his mind. He remembered her golden hair in the moonlight, the upraised sword, the black horse, but realized that she was human, after all. In a way, the knowledge pleased him, for a goddess would be difficult to woo, but a woman of flesh and blood was another matter entirely.

“So, you are no goddess at all, just a mortal like myself,” he said softly. He tried to sit up but a wave of dizziness came over him. Reaching for her hand, he held it firmly, looking deep into her eyes. “They would have tortured me and no doubt even worse if you had not come along,” he said earnestly, and was rewarded with another of her smiles.

Fe
eling suddenly tired, Valerian closed his eyes. Wynne, too, felt spent. It had been a long night and her exertions had finally caught up with her. Feeling the need to stay with him and protect him, she crawled over to where the man slept and lay down beside him and fell fast asleep.

Chapter Three

Waking from her slumber, Wynne rose and glanced about her, taking in the untamed forest with its mossy floor hidden from view by a curtain woven of hundreds of treetops which shivered in the breezes of the early-morning air. The wild, beautiful music of hundreds of wakening birds serenaded her as they flew from bough to bough, flying over the hills and plains and the mountains. She felt safe here in the forest and felt assured that the dark-haired man would also be safe.

Thinking about the Roman brought chills to Wynne’s flesh as she remembered his touch, the caress of his mouth against hers. She turned around and found that he too was awake, looking at her with his amber-brown eyes.

“You are real after all. Not just a vision of my imagination,” he said to her, smiling. The smile faded as he looked down at his body, clothed only in the loincloth. The memory of his near-death came ba
ck to him. His tunic and armor had been taken from him by his captors.  It made him feel weak and humiliated.  And worst of all vulnerable.

“
Those dogs, they took my armor, my helmet, my sword and my clothes!” he cried in frustration. How could he have allowed himself to be captured, he who was a centurion in the mighty army of Rome?

“
I have your sword but your clothes…..?” She shrugged.  There had not been time to retrieve his garments.

“Yes. Yes.
My tunic.....I need clothing. Clothing.”

“I will bring you garments,” she answered, trying to calm his frustration.

“Then thank you again.”  He paused.   “Valerian. My name is Valerian.”

“Val-er-ian.” Wynne repeated with just a trace of an accent. Taking her small hand
in his, he lifted his eyebrows in inquiry.

“Wynne,” she answered, understanding what it was he wanted of her.

“Wynne, a beautiful name. It suits you, you know.” Valerian knew a little about the languages in this land, but each tribe had its different dialect, which made it hard to converse with her in her tongue. He did know enough about the Celtic languages, however, to know that her name meant “the fair” or “the white.”

“Are you hungry?” she asked, realizing that she was.  He nodded, instigating
a short walk for her to search for some food. She came back with a breakfast of fruits and berries for him. Together they ate and enjoyed each other’s company.

“I m
ust go back!” Wynne said, suddenly standing up. “But I will come back—soon.”

Valerian didn’t want to let her go. Instead he felt the desire to gather her into his arms and make lo
ve to her, but something in her eyes told him that she spoke the truth, that she must get back to her people. He also sensed that she was the kind of woman he would have to woo gently.  “Goodbye, goddess,” Valerian said to her softly as she departed. He had known this beauty for less than one full day and yet when she left it seemed that a part of him had left also.

Wynne rode back through the forest, not daring to stop to let the horse rest. If the gods smiled upon her, Adair would be gone from the lodge by now after spending the night in the dwelling of the chief of the clan. They were of to hunt the wild pig which lived at the edge of the marshes to the east.

Sliding from Sloan’s back, she approached the lodge with caution, feeling relieved to see that her father’s weapons were gone from the front of the porch. Wishing herself invisible, she walked softly through the doorway.

“So, you have seen fit to return,” a voice she knew all too well said behind her. Turning, she saw Brenna sitting at her wooden loom, her arms moving gracefully as she went about her work.

“I…I was out riding Sloan,” Wynne whispered, avoiding the woman’s eyes. Brenna was her father’s second wife. Adair had married the buxom dark-haired woman after the death of Wynne’s mother a few years ago, but she and Wynne were always at odds. Wynne knew that this woman bore her no love and wondered if it was perhaps because of the closeness she and her father shared. “I took a spill,” Wynne went on, to explain her disheveled appearance.

“Out riding that horse again, instead of helping me to do the household work. When are you going to realize that you are a woman, not a man? You are your father’s daughter, not his son!” Her voice was venomous, perhaps because Adair so wished for a son, but Brenna had yet to conceive. Her eyes told Wynne that she longed for the day when she could have Adair all to herself, when Wynne left to live at the fire of her own husband.

“I’m sorry, Brenna,” Wynne apologized, wishing to avoid an argument today of all days.

Brenna did not answer her, but merely stared at her with dark brooding eyes as Wynne set about changing her clothes and then tidying the large room of the round house. Wynne touched the wall of wattle and daub with its colorful pictures painted upon it to decorate the lodge. Her father had been so proud of her artistry, as had her mother. Even then she had shown promise of her many talents.

“Are you going to spend the entire day in the land of dreams?” Brenna’s voice questioned scathingly.

Wynne quickly resumed her tasks, feeling Brenna’s eyes upon her as she moved about the room. She shook out the furs covering the sleeping shelves against the wall, filled the water jugs from the well, and gathered up the old straw rushes from the dirt floor, scattering new straw in its place.

The hours seemed to drag by. Her thoughts were on Valerian the entire day, worrying about him, wondering what he was doing. She even tried her hand at weaving, but her hands seemed to be all thumbs, her fingers shaking as she tried to weave the soft threads.

“Here, let me do that!” Brenna snarled. “You are totally worthless to me today!” The woman’s beady gray eyes searched Wynne’s face, as if drawing her thoughts from her mind. “Something is wrong with you. Something more than a fall from your horse. Something has happened.”

“No. No, I’m just a bit shaken, that’s all,” Wynne lied, hoping that Brenna would believe her.

Giving her a little push away from the loom, Brenna shook her head in frustration. “Oh, all right. But get out of my sight. I can’t bear to have you around me when you are so clumsy.”

Wynne hurried outside, anxious to be alone with her thoug
hts. She watched several young men—slaves--busy at work digging a hole in the west ditch. A palisade ran around the inside of the ditch except at the entrance, and she could see several workers channeling their cows into the compound. She felt a twinge of pity for these people. What would it be liked to be
owned?
She wondered, and shuddered at the thought as she gazed upon their iron neck shackles. Why was it that some men should have a life of hard work and poverty while others were more favored? She had asked her father this question many times, and always heard the same answer. It was so among all the Celtic tribes. The divisions were clear: Druids, learned men and equites, the warriors and nobles, were the ruling classes, and the peasants and slaves were the toiling classes.

Seeing two dogs fighting over a bone in the open area near the fire of life, Wynne was reminded that Valerian had not eaten much this morning. Surely he would be starved. Anxious to find food for him, she made her way toward the grain storehouse. She would take some barley
and meat back with her for the Roman and some ale.

Drifting smoke carried the aroma of meat and vegetables steaming in the cooking pots heated by stones from the firepit. She would take a little out of each to carry back with her to the cave.
Hoping that Brenna would be gone, Wynne made her way back to the lodge, but the woman still sat at her loom.

I’ll return when it is dark, when Brenna is asleep, to gather clothing for the dark-haired stranger,
she thought.

Reaching up to touch her hair, she was dis
mayed to find that it was a mass of tangles. For the first time in her life Wynne longed for a mirror in her hands., but there was none available at the moment, not unless she went back into the lodge, which she was not inclined to do.

Suddenly Wynne—until now the least vain of young woman—wanted to make herself more attractive. Was it because of the stranger? Walking to the edge of the pond near the village, she paused to look at herself. What did the stranger think of her? She wondered. Was she pretty? She hoped so. She wanted him to like her. She combed her unbound hair with her fingers, then carefully plaited it into two thick braids. Kneeling at the edge of the pond, she splashed the cle
ar water on her face—it was cold, and refreshing.

Will he do it again that touching of the mouths
? she wondered, looking again at her image in the water and touching her lips with her fingertips. Wynne went on to wash her legs and arms, then remembered that Brenna always wore a concoction made of flower petals and honeysuckle on her skin when she wished to find favor with Adair. Gathering a handful of honeysuckle clover, Wynne wondered if their charm would work for her as well.

By the time she
had finished grooming herself, the sky was welcoming the night. With a feeling of happiness she had seldom experienced before, she realized that soon it would be time to see Valerian again. She returned to the lodge thankful that Brenna was now gone. Going over to her clothing chest, she raised the lid to look for something suitable to wear. She decided upon a green gown with an over-tunic of checks in tan and black, clasped together by a bronze brooch. The garments made her feel very feminine, almost pretty. When she was finished dressing, she looked carefully around her to make certain that Brenna was nowhere in sight and rummaged through her father’s clothing trunk, hoping that the stranger would not be too muscular to wear her father’s clothing. Wrapping the garments in one of her father’s fur cloaks, she made her way toward the fire.

Ah, good. The family has left plenty of food from dinner
, she thought, taking a large portion for herself and Valerian and putting it into an earthenware jar. She would have to find a small keg of mead or ale for Valerian too. No doubt there would be some near the meeting-house.

So anxious was Wynne to return to the stranger in the forest that she did not notice the eyes which watched her every move—cold cruel eyes.

“So,” said a voice when Wynne had left, “the Roman barbarian is still close at hand and the bard’s daughter shields him. So much the worse for her. She will learn obedience.” The figure in the shadows smiled and went back into the lodge.

Chapter Four

Valerian scowled as he looked around him. He paced back and forth, wearing a path across the floor of the small cave which had become his temporary quarters. His jaw was clenched, his arms crossed in front of him. Where was she? Had she come to harm
or just forgotten him?

Reaching up, he felt the stubble of his beard and swore beneath his breath. What he wouldn’t give for a hot bath at this very minute, though in this godforsaken land this luxury, as well as many others, was denied him.
  Dressed in his loincloth, unable to groom himself, he felt like a barbarian.

A chill ran up his back as he remembered what fate had almost befallen him, if not for the beautiful Wynne. Wynne!
She fascinated him, not just because of her beauty but because of her courage, her intelligence, and the fact that she was different than any woman he had ever met.  His countrymen would call her a heathen, a savage, but he thought her to be intriguing. Still, he had to remember that she was a Celt, one of the people they were trying to subdue.

With a shudder Valerian remembered all that he had heard about these people.
The fierce Celtic warriors believed in the immortality of the spirit and in reincarnation. They were unafraid to die in battle, for they had been told by their Druids that they would come back in another body. Valerian had also been told that they were head-hunters who openly displayed the heads of their enemies as trophies. He had not believed all these stories while living safely in Rome. He had laughed at the fears of his cousin Marcus, who had cringed at the thought of being sent to Gaul. And yet wasn’t it true that these people made human sacrifices? Hadn’t he nearly been a victim of their priests?