Love's Blazing Ecstasy (31 page)

Valerian regained consciousness a long time later to find someone standing over him. It was Brenna, fumbling for his sword. Somehow she had escaped her bonds and now had it in her mind to kill him.

Let her do it, Valerian thought. Let it be over. I have no fondness for this existence with Wynne gone and my life in shambles. Yet his inner soul would not let him die this way. Just
as Brenna had the sword firmly in hand, Valerian’s instinct for survival took hold of him. With a scream of outrage at both her and the man who had murdered his lover, he tumbled sidewise, kicking upward as he did so. Brenna clutched at her stomach, dropping the sword to the ground. Valerian lunged for the weapon, using every bit of strength left to him, grasping it firmly as if in a handshake with a faithful friend. Brenna drew back, eyes wide with fear. The centurion had such a fearsome look upon his face that she turned on her heels and fled.

Valerian did not have the strength to follow her, even though he knew that she would now expose him. He wondered just how friendly she was with Severus.  No doubt she would run right to him and tell him his whereabouts.  Would Severus try to capture him when he found out he had escaped?  Or was he smug in the knowledge that he had won his malicious victory? No matter the answer, Valerian knew that he had no strength left to fight. His only chance was to hide in the cave until his wound was healed sufficiently to enable him to travel.

Gasping in pain, Valerian made his way through the forest. He was thirsty, as if all the bodily fluids had seeped out of him with the loss of his blood. His lips were parched, his tongue swollen. A hundred times he staggered, falling to his knees, unable to go on. But just when it seemed that all hope was gone, he would somehow find it in himself to push forward again.

When at last he came to the clearing by the cave, he dropped to the ground before the spring of water. No wine had ever tasted so good to him as he gulped it down. With his thirst assuaged, he cleansed his wound and bound it with a fresh piece of torn tunic and splashed the water over his face. Dragging himself to the mouth of the cave, he whistled for Sloan and let the horse pull him the rest of the way. Pain-racked and weary, he dropped to the floor of the cave, safe at last.

Several days of sorrow and anger p
assed before Valerian began to regain his strength. During his long, healing sleep he saw Wynne’s face before his eyes again and again in his dreams and he cried out to her. But Wynne was gone from him forever.

Valerian had been lucky; his wound had remained clean and he had found some of the healing herbs Wynne had given him that time she had rescued him. He had seen many a soldier lose either his life or his limb through a festering wound. He was able to sustain himself with berries and the small game that passed near the cave. Day by day he felt his health return as his blood seemed to renew itself.

The day finally came when he knew that he could no longer stay in his forest hideaway, that he must return somehow to Rome. He couldn’t help but wonder what his father’s reaction would be to what he told him about Severus. Would he help him fight the tribune and clear his name?

Leaving his cuirass and armor behind him so that he would be able to travel at a faster pace, Valerian mounted Sloan in the darkness of the night. He rode quickly through the forest, heading southeast. The path was deserted, as he had hoped it would be, no sign of the soldiers anywhere, nor of any travelers. Apparently the Celts did not want to risk running into the
Romans in the darkness of the night. Hearing a noise behind him now and again, he would hide among the foliage, only to find that the sound had been caused by a flock of birds or a wild animal moving around in the dark.

It was not until the fifth day of the journey that Valerian realized that he was being followed. From his vantage point high on a hill he could see them, their bright scarlet cloaks billowing in the breeze, helmets gleaming in the sun with their horsehair crests ruffling like the feathers of birds in flight. They were a few miles behind him, but gaining steadily as they forged onward.

“So, Severus knows that I am near,” he said. It amused him that so many men—he counted nearly thirty—had been sent after him. “No doubt he expects me to head in the direction which I now take southeast toward Eboracum, but I shall fool him. I shall go west toward Deva.” It would be a dangerous trip, he knew, for uncivilized Celtic tribes, hunters of human heads, populated the land there, as well as the heathen Picts. Still, were he to have to choose between death at their hands and being taken captive by Severus, he knew he would prefer a quick death at Celtic hands.

“My fate is in the hands of the gods,” he said, looking up at the sky.

Thus began a long, hard journey across the moorlands, toward the western seacoast, where Valerian hoped to find a ship—merchant or war ship, he cared not—which would take him safely back to Rome.

Chapter Forty-Six

The early
-morning sun caught the gleam of golden hair as Meghan carefully combed Wynne’s tresses. “Hold still!” she scolded, trying with difficulty to arrange the blond hair in a fashionable chignon high on the back of Wynne’s head. 

“I’m sorry,” Wynne answered with a mischievous smile. “But I do not like just sitting. There is so much to be done.” How she longed to go riding, but she was watched night and day awaiting
Severus’ return. The lack of activity had not been wasted, however, for she had been studying Latin—how to read and write it—and was now almost fluent in her ability to speak the language.

“I know. Neither do I,” said Meghan. “It is hard to get used to the
Roman way of life. They are so idle, always eating and enjoying their concubines.”

At the word “concubine” Wynne w
inced. “Oh, how I hate even the thought of being that vile old man’s mistress. His touch makes  my flesh crawl.” She gasped in pain as Meghan pulled at a snarl of hair.

Meghan attached four narrow plaits of false hair to Wynne’s coiffure and the front of false curls arranged in three rows on a framework, as was the
Roman style, then stepped back to view her handiwork. “You look beautiful,” she breathed in awe, wishing she were as lovely as this golden-haired woman. Perhaps then Burrus would look at her with eyes filled with love.

I must not be jealous of Wynne,
she scolded to herself.
She is so kind and has been my friend.
Still it hurt to realize that to Burrus she was only a child, a pretty young untouchable girl.

Seeing the expression on the red-haired girl’s face, Wynne asked, “Meghan, what is wrong/”

“I am a woman too. Why can’t anyone see that!” she answered peevishly.

Wynne smiled knowingly. “Ah, you are thinking of young Burrus.” She liked the young centurion. To her he was like a brother, a friend. Since her rough treatment by the
Roman soldiers  that fateful day and her near-rape by them, Wynne could not bear to be touched by any man. Even the touch of the gentle Burrus made her cringe in apprehension.  But Meghan was like Wynne used to be—idealistic—waiting for love.

Meghan blushed crimson to the roots of her hair. “Is it so obvious?” she asked, reaching up to adjust her own coiffure which was similar to Wynne’s.

“No. But I, too, was once in love, and I know how it feels. All I have to do is see the way you look at him to remember my own illusions of love.”

Meghan slipped her
stola
on over her head and belted it with a finely woven cord. The linen material clung to her budding figure and made her look like anything but a child. Running her hands down over her body as if to assure herself of her maturity, Meghan was lost in her dreams, imagining the hands to be those of Burrus. Wishing to look her best when he came to visit later, she wound a string of pearls in her hair and put on several rings and bracelets. Wynne’s laughter brought her back to her senses.

“Not too many jewels, lest you look too much the matron,” she chided gently. Wynne stood before the silver mirror clad only in her undergarment, her
strophium
. These Roman garments felt so foreign to her. She was so much more comfortable in her gowns, but she had been forbidden to dress in her Celtic clothing. With a sigh she too dressed in a long, flowing
stola
of pale blue.

Meghan gently tugged at Wynne’s arm. “Is this better?” she asked, having removed most of the bracelets. With her large innocent eyes she looked so vulnerable in her white stola that Wynne had the urge to gather her into her arms and guard her from any more heartache. Instead, she merely said, “yes, you look lovely. Burrus would have to be blind or a fool not to fall in love with you.”

Meghan could not help but notice the sadness in her friend’s eyes, and felt guilty for being so selfish as to only think about her own hopes and dreams, when Wynne had been through so much. “Do you still love your Roman?” she asked.

“No!” Wynne answered too quickly not to give lie to the answer. “He used the love I bore him for his own gains and killed my father!” As if to block out the sight of the handsome face of Valerian which even now haunted her, Wynne put he
r hands up to her face.

Putting a gentle hand on Wynne’s shoulder, Meghan’s eyes mirrored her sympathy. “Perhaps you will love again.”

“No. I will never give my heart again, not ever,” Wynne said angrily.

“What is it like, making love?” Meghan asked suddenly, her voice soft, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“It was the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me, like the flowing together of two rivers. If only he had not betrayed me, I would have been happy for the rest of my life with the memory of having loved him.” She felt a stab of pain in her heart as she thought about Valerian.

“If it was so wonderful why are you frowning?”

Remembering her assault by the soldiers and the brutality they had meted out to her she shuddered. “It can be the most brutal thing that can happen to a woman if she is taken without gentleness, with only lust.” For the first time since it had happened, she poured out her heart to another, telling Meghan about that awful day when she had been seized and nearly violated by the Romans. It was as if a terrible burden had been lifted off her heart to talk about it.

Meghan’s heart ached for her friend. “Oh, Wynne, I had heard that you had been used vilely, but I had no idea how terrible it had been for you. I’m so glad that you shared lovemaking with your
Roman before….”

“Excuse me, ladies,” Burrus said, coming into the tent with a shy grin on his face.  He had heard Meghan mention lovemaking and that put the thought into his mind. His eyes swept over her, but he scolded himself for the thought in his mind. She was only a child, barely sixteen, and Valerian had entrusted h
er to him. To seduce this fair creature would be nearly a sacrilege. He turned his attention to Wynne, not really certain in his own mind just how he felt about the two women. In a way he loved them both. Proud Wynne with her blazing eyes and spirit—each time he was with her his emotions were in turmoil. She was no stranger to love, he was certain, yet she acted as if she loathed all men. And Meghan—what were his feelings for her? She was so lovely and pure; she too touched him deeply and stirred him.

“It is good to see you, Burrus,” Wynne said with a gracious smile, proud of her newly acquired etiquette.

“And it is good to see you, Wynne.”  To him she was no slave, but the ice princess, and as such he greeted her like one would royalty, kissing her outstretched hand.

Meghan fought to control her tears for she thought that Burrus had not even noticed her. Little did she know how much self-control it took for him to ignore her, knowing that he would get lost in those jade-green eyes if he dared to let down his guard even for a moment. Feeling like a child who was in the way, Meghan left the tent before her tears gave her away.

“Severus is to return at the end of the week,” Burrus told Wynne, reading her face for a reaction to the news.

Her face was contorted by a frown. “No,” she gasped. She had been nearly happy these past few weeks with Meghan and Burrus around her. Unlike some of the other slaves, she was not forced to do hard work or wait upon others but instead led the pampered life of a concubine.

Without realizing the effect she had on Burrus, Wynne reached out to him, needing his comfort. Surprised at this gesture, he misread her, thinking that she wanted him to hold her, that she had feelings for him that went far beyond friendship.

“It will be all right,” he whispered, gathering her into his arms.  Wynne did not struggle or recoil as she usually did, but instead enjoyed the warmth of the embrace. He was her friend. He understood her revulsion at being owned by the tribune, or so she thought.

She smelled so good, and the feel of her body pressing against his own was a potent aphrodisiac. Giving in to his longing, he stroked her hair—his hands moving lower to caress her soft skin. Desire bubbled forth like a powerful tide, hot and sweet, and in that moment he gave in to his emotions, she was just too tempting.

“Wynne….”

Before she understood his intent, Burrus’s lips descended upon hers as though he wanted to devour her. She struggled against him, memories of other, brutal kisses flooding her mind. His hand was on her breast, his tongue darting into her mouth.  He molded his body so tightly against hers that she feared she could not breathe.