When he climbed down the ladder, Greum jumped up to greet him.
“Have ye been here all night?” Taran asked.
“Aye, I didn’t want to intrude on you and the lassie.” Greum flashed him a wink and nodded his head toward the guard sleeping on the other side of the ladder. “Sim there told me a few unsavory things about Master Morgon.”
Taran glanced at the guard who started to rouse. Once his eyes opened, he lumbered to his feet, flustered yet alert. “King Taran, Simian, son of Taog at yer service.”
Taran nodded. “Thank ye, lad. What news of Morgon?”
“He’s no Pict leader. He’s raiding the Roman coffers—keeping the loot for himself and that motherless sucking swine, Raibeart. He told me to starve the lady and the holy man to weaken their resolve, but I took them food. The lady was so lovely—and half-starved to begin with. I couldn’t very well sit back and let him treat her worse than a dog—especially knowing she was under yer protection, sire.”
Taran nodded. “I thank ye.”
Sim’s gaze trailed from Taran’s face and settled on the gash in his side. “My oath, sire, what happened to ye?”
“We ran into a band of Saxons.”
Greum leaned against the ladder. “They turned their giant loose on him, but Taran killed the bastard. Twenty-one hands he was.”
Sim gaped, his eyes practically bugging out of his head. “Bloody oath.”
They were wasting precious time. “I need a tunic and some clean bandages. Then we’ll face Morgon. Can ye find that for me?”
The stout man nodded and headed for the door.
“Sim?” Taran stopped him.
“Aye?”
“Say nothing about this.”
He tapped his fingers to his mouth. “Ye have me word.”
Taran turned to Greum and lowered his voice. “Can he be trusted?”
“Aye. He believes Morgon to be lower than a Roman soldier. He also said there are many others who feel the same.”
“Good. We’ll have support if this escalates into a battle.” Taran moved to the trough and splashed water on his face. “Where’s the bishop?”
“He’s sleeping in an empty stall down the back.” Greum flashed a lopsided grin. “I didn’t want him to hear the carry-ons coming from the loft.”
Taran tried not to smile. “Ta.”
“It was time.”
“Yes, it was.”
Greum chuckled. “I’m glad ye agreed with me for once.”
Sim returned with a roll of bandages and a tunic Taran hoped would fit across his chest.
Greum reached for the bandages and studied Taran’s wound. “It’s been weeping, but that’s a good sign. No infection.”
Greum pressed his fingers above the gash.
Taran grunted. “Just bind it up and be done.”
He pulled the tunic on and loosely tied the laces at the neckline. It was snug around his chest, but would have to do. He fastened Seumas’s sword low around his hips to avoid aggravating the wound. “Simian, can ye gather the Pict men who honor our creed?”
“Aye, sire.”
“Move quickly.” Taran clasped Simian’s fist against his chest. “Ye are a true Pict, and yer courage will nay go unrecognized.”
With a grin as wide as the barn itself, Simian, son of Taog, ran off to fulfill his duty. Taran watched until he was out of sight. “If half of the men guarding the wall have his heart, we’ll defeat Theodosius’s legion and leave them bleeding on the battle field.”
Greum frowned. “Aye. ʼTis another war we must wage.”
“True, but they’ll have to face the Anglos and the Saxons before they get to us.”
“Ye going to enlist the Attacotti like Oisean?”
“No bleating chance. Come.”
Greum walked beside Taran as they made their way to the principia. “Let me face Morgon. Ye need to recover from yer wound.”
“ʼTis a matter of honor. He lied to me—and betrayed Valeria when she went to him for help. I will make short work of him.”
Swords drawn, Taran and Greum marched into the headquarters building only to find it empty. Furniture was pushed aside, and everything else, from maps to the silver tankards from which he’d seen Morgon sip mead, was all gone. “The bastard has fled.”
Greum shoved open the door to the back chamber. “Sim was right, the lout has pilfered the coffers. There’s not a single candlestick left.”
Taran pushed in beside him surveying the demolished room—no furniture remained untouched. “Aye, but it’s much harder to travel when ye’re laden with a load of metal.”
Taran dashed to the portico and stopped short. True to his word, Sim had gathered the men. All of them. The courtyard was full of Picts, lined up shoulder to shoulder. Taran panned the sea of tattooed expectant faces, and then he shut his gaping mouth.
Clearing his throat, he stood tall. “Men. Picts. I commend yer brave efforts in capturing and holding this fort and all of Hadrian’s Wall. I’m aware remaining here away from yer families is a hardship for ye lads. I’ve had word a Roman general marches from Hispania to reclaim the wall.” Taran thrust his sword into the air. “We will not let them!”
A cheer erupted from the crowd and Taran sucked in a deep breath. Leadership was what these men needed most. They were not receiving it from Morgon. “At the moment, we have an unsavory task at hand. One of our own, one with power, who should have been a pillar of strength, has deceived me, and has not been honest with you.”
A bass voice resonated from the back. “Morgon took me horse for his own and left me with a sorry nag.”
Taran nodded. “Morgon has wronged the lot of us. I need a band of volunteers to ride after him and bring him to justice. Simian will lead the men and return Morgon to Dunpelder, dead or alive.”
Taran glanced down at Sim who was grinning like he’d just won a prize bull calf. Hands flew up and shouts from the men who wanted vengeance rang across the courtyard. Taran held up his palm, requesting silence. “Sim will gather his team. I have not had the opportunity to meet all of you, especially since the death of King Oisean. However, the four corners of the Pict creed still rings true for us, just as it did for our forefathers. We must stand together, for at odds we will not survive. The enemy is regrouping. Internal disputes will make us weak. Live your lives by our creed. It must fill your heart, and the Picts will never be vanquished.”
To the booming cries of his men, Taran raised his sword again. “Honor. Loyalty. Duty. Freedom!” Each word was shouted to the heavens by a hundred voices. Taran felt the power of the Picts pierce through him as if a million tiny needles prickled his skin right down to his soul.
As he lowered his sword, he leaned toward Sim. “Tell me what ye need.”
“Help ourselves to some foodstuffs and we should be right, sire.”
“Let it be done.” Taran sheathed his sword as the men set to task. He turned to Greum. “I need to find a dressmaker, lest Valeria will be hold up in the loft for life.”
“Aye, and it looks like ye could use a new tunic as well. That one’s about to burst at the seams.”
****
Taran’s dirty tunic slipped from her shoulders when Valeria stirred. She pressed her hands against her abdomen. Had last night really happened? A laugh erupted from her smiling lips. Again, in the face of peril, Taran had raced to save her. He was her guardian angel. They were bound by more than love. Their souls were one and now they had joined their bodies as well. She was his, no matter what the Picts or the Romans said. She was tied to him forever.
When Taran’s red hair popped through the hole in the loft floor, Valeria pulled up the tunic to cover her breasts. He grinned, the sunlight catching the faint freckles across his nose. His blue eyes sparkled with happiness. “I see ye’re awake, m’lady.”
“Yes, and ever so glad to see you.”
“I’ve brought ye some food.” He pushed a plate through the opening. “And a present too.” He pulled himself through the l
oft door and held up a lavender dress made with finely spun wool.
“Oh Taran, ʼtis lovely.” She bunched the tunic under her chin, trying to cover what she could.
Taran moved toward her, oblivious to her embarrassment. “I thought the color would suit ye.” He stopped, a wide-eyed gape overcame his smile. “Ah. Ye better slip it on, else we’ll be romping in the hay again in very short order.”
Her cheeks burned and she shrunk under the tunic. “Apologies. I must look a fright.”
“Nay, ye are a vision who stirs me longings deeper than I ever thought possible.” His hands seemed unsteady as he thrust out the dress. “I’ll leave ye to dress. The bishop is waiting below.”
Valeria reached one hand out for the gown. Taran leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “I’ll leave the sausage and bread here too. We shall leave for Gododdin when ye’re ready.”
Gododdin. The word sounded like music. Valeria watched Taran descend the ladder before she stood, holding the dress up to her body. It was a lovely shade of lavender, with heather embroidered along the hem of the wide sleeves. Her Roman gowns, though made of fine cloth, had no patterns embroidered into them. She liked the femininity of the heather. It made her feel pretty.
Valeria smoothed out the folds and surveyed the fit along both sides. She held out her arms and ran her finger over the heather. The dress was a huge improvement over the filthy rag she’d been wearing. Certainly the fire was a Godsend. No one had been hurt, Taran had found her and she received a lovely new dress.
Valeria reached for the food. Taran had thoughtfully placed a comb beside it. As she ate, she methodically worked the knots from her hair, and when she descended the ladder, three sets of eyes stared.
****
The heavy anvil of guilt hung around Taran’s neck when the bishop inquired as to Valeria’s health as well as her virtue. He knew it was wrong to thrust himself upon her. She was so young and innocent. She couldn’t possibly understand the enormity of their actions from the previous night.
They were both overwhelmingly in love. Neither he nor she had been capable of restraint. He was weak. He should have been the one to stop their passion from going too far. He should have acted like a king. But no, he let his emotions seize his heart and his cock.
Heat burned beneath his surcoat when he remembered Valeria holding his member in her tiny hand. Taran shook his head to clear his mind. With a gentle ahem, he eyed the bishop. “As a holy man, do ye conduct wedding rites?”
“Yes, men and women are joined in holy matrimony and pledge their love before God.” Elusius covered his mouth and coughed.
“I want ye to conduct the rite between me and Valeria.”
The bishop launched into a fit of raucous coughing. “You cannot be serious. Are you not promised? I only went along with Valeria on this misadventure to appease her stubborn curiosity.”
“I love her.” Taran spread his palms wide. “What finer grounds are there for a man and a woman to be wed?”
“True, love is an important part of marriage, but you and Valeria are from two different worlds. You cannot even consider this.”
“Ye do not understand. She is bound to me, and I to her.”
The bishop’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
Taran’s gut muscles clenched. He would not back down. “We have lain together.”
The coughing wouldn’t stop this time. The bishop’s face grew angry red. Taran rushed to the trough and handed him a ladle of water. “Ye must marry us in secret. Once Valeria passes the test, she’ll be a Pict and we’ll have a proper gathering, but I must be wed to her today for my own piece of mind and hers.”
“Oh Lord, help us all. This nightmare continues to worsen.” He ran his fingers through his gray curls. “Come. I shall confront her ladyship.”
Taran stood with Greum and the bishop as Valeria descended the ladder. Taran was right, the color suited her, and the extra coin was worth seeing her as a vision of beauty on her wedding day. She’d found the comb and her hair glistened blue-black with the light that shone down from the loft.
“What?” she asked.
Taran opened his mouth to speak, but the bishop held forth. “You’ve lain with this man?”
Valeria gasped. With a look of horror and shocked betrayal, her gaze shot to Taran.
He reached out for her shoulders. “I can explain…”
Valeria didn’t wait. She shrugged from his grasp and ran out of the barn.
This was not how Taran envisioned his proposal. He raced after her in the wake of her wails. When a pace behind, he reached out for her hand. “Valeria stop. Hear me.”
She whipped around, eyes ablaze. “How could you betray me? I gave myself to you. It was pure and holy, and you have turned it into something sinister and immoral.”
Valeria tried to wrench her arm away, but Taran held firmly. “No. I. Did. Not! I asked the bishop to marry us this day. I cannot live without ye.”
Valeria stopped fighting. Her tormented obsidian eyes gaped up at him, tears wetting her cheeks. “M-marry us? H-how can that be? You are king. I must past the test.”
“Aye. What you say is entirely true, but I’ll make my own pledge to you—as a man. We will be wed in secret before Atar and your God. We shall honor each other and make holy our bed. When you become a Pict, we’ll have a gathering and all of Pictdom will know we are one.” He drew the sobbing woman into his breast. “I want to be yer husband, Valeria. I can wait no longer.”
She sucked in a stuttered breath. “But you could be banished.”
Chapter Thirty
Taran led the party northward. Valeria could barely contain herself. He hadn’t said where they were going, only that he knew a secluded place fitting for the ceremony.
Valeria rode beside him at a steady pace. She thought it fitting when Mia nipped playfully at Blackie. “I think Mia has chosen her sire.”
“The pair would make a fine colt.”
Valeria shot him a knowing smile. “As would we.”
True to Taran’s word, the glade looked like a scene from a painting. Green moss hung from the trees, kissing a still pool of water. Wildflowers were in bloom, daisies and snapdragons in pinks and violets. Lavender wisteria sprinkled through the trees, as if the king had ordered it to match his bride’s gown.
Greum hobbled the horses while Valeria excused herself and sought privacy behind a thicket. Her heart leaping for joy, she ran the silver comb through her tresses one more time. She pinched her cheeks to give them color and smoothed her skirts. She wished Pia were there to help her prepare, but this would have to do. At least she’d washed her face and hands before they departed Vindolanda.
When she stepped into the clearing, Taran and Greum stood on either side of the bishop. Taran wore a new tunic that glowed white in the sun. His hair was ablaze. A mighty picture he made, a head taller than Greum, two over Elusius. As Valeria walked toward them, she marveled at Taran’s muscular build—long, powerful legs were skirted by his blue surcoat, a sword at this side, a narrow waist from which sprouted broad masculine shoulders. He was a man destined for greatness simply by the size of him.
Her feet felt like they were floating when she stopped and faced him. Greum handed her a bouquet of wildflowers. “Ye cannot be wed without a posy.”
Valeria held the flowers to her nose and inhaled their fresh scent. “Thank you.”
The bishop joined their hands and recited the ceremony in Latin. Valeria knew both Greum and Taran understood every word, and she gazed into the aqua blue eyes that locked with hers.
She repeated the words when the bishop commanded, as did her betrothed in his assured deep bass. Valeria’s heart thrummed in her chest as his words resonated. She floated through the service, hardly able to grasp she was marrying the man upon whom her entire world centered. He’d shown her love in so many ways, they were meant to be one. She refused to allow her mind to sabotage the occasion with thoughts of Dunpelder, the elders and what was to come.
This was her moment. It was beautiful, sacred and entirely personal.
When the bishop ended with the words, “…I pronounce you man and wife,” Taran shuttered his eyes with long auburn lashes. As he lowered his head, luscious anticipation and slow burn of desire curled through her. He tipped her head back with his palm, and his mouth claimed hers with a dominant kiss. Valeria trembled. The coil of need radiated from the depths of her very being. She was alive and in love, and this was the most glorious day of her eight and ten years.
When the rite of marriage ended, Elusius and Greum said their goodbyes.
“Where are they going?” she asked.
“I’ve asked them to meet us at the Antonine wall.” Taran lifted her hands to his lips. “We have this day and the beauty of this glade to rejoice in our union.”
Valeria wrapped her arms around him, holding her head against his heart. The life thrummed within powerfully. “I am happier now than I ever dreamed possible.”
He kissed her possessively, as if he were staking his claim. “Ye are my wife and to you I will always be true.”
Taran led her through the wood to a pool fed by a waterfall spilling across a crag of ancient boulders. He faced her and ran his fingers through her long tresses. “Ye are so fine to me. I can think of no one more suited to be my queen.”
Enraptured by his words, she traced her finger along the blue swirls on his face. “Taran, son of Brude. I want to give you sons who will wear your sign over their hearts.”
With a tug, he loosened the lace on the front of her gown. She lowered her arms and allowed him to push it from her shoulders. He unwrapped her mamillare and cupped her breasts in his hands. Bending, he took her nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. Her legs weakened and she threw her head back, grasping his shoulders for balance. His delectable lips trailed down her belly until he reached her subligar.
She opened her legs and allowed him to push the loincloth to the ground. He smoothed his fingers between her legs. Her entire body shuddered with yearning. But she didn’t want to succumb to her own pleasure. Not yet.
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