Highlander's Sweet Promises

by Tarah Scott

  Taran shielded Valeria with a protective arm and led her to the arched entrance of the grand castle. “What shall I call you, my liege?” she whispered.

  “Taran will suffice.”

  With no more time for questions, Valeria blinked rapidly to help her eyes adjust to the dim light inside the keep. She jittered like a five-year-old being presented to the Emperor for the first time. She’d never forget the day her father made her walk down the aisle of the Valentinian’s palace hall. All eyes were on her as she held her chin high, masking her fear, just as Mother had instructed.

  Today was a little different. She wasn’t alone. Taran pressed his powerful palm into the small of her back. Pia’s footfalls clapped the floorboards behind her. On the far side of the enormous hall, a man, great in stature, sat upon a throne carved of wood. Beside him perched a regal woman, her lavender gown displaying ornate embroidery, her golden hair neatly braided under a crown of bronze.

  The king stood, struggling to take a few steps forward, but a grin stretched across his battle-scarred, tattooed face. “My prince.”

  Taran stepped forward and kneeled before his uncle. He took his hand and kissed his ring. The king placed a palm on his shoulder. “I knew ye would return to us.”

  Something wasn’t right. The king’s movements were slow, his complexion sallow. Valeria recalled Greum mentioning Taran’s father—or uncle—was ill, and though tall, his frame was gaunt. His hair, streaked with grey, appeared lighter than Taran’s red, though he still carried himself with an air of command. From his broad shoulders, she surmised he was a king of stature in the twilight of his reign.

  Standing with the others several feet back from the royal dais, Valeria had difficulty hearing the hushed conversation. When the king leaned to the side and looked her way, she knew her plight was now the topic of discussion.

  Her fingers trembled as she considered her predicament. There she stood in the center of the enemy’s stronghold while the king discussed with his heir what must be done. Because she was a Roman, the Picts would be within their rights to hang her in the courtyard this very day. But since she was also a woman who helped Taran in the bowels of the Roman gaol, they could show leniency and subject her to a life of servitude. With her father dead, she wondered to whom she could be ransomed. Clearly, they would not sail to Rome. She doubted it would be safe to travel back to Hadrian’s Wall until the raids subsided. At this point, she had no idea how far back the legions had been driven, or who lived. Her situation was dire indeed.

  Valeria’s mind rifled through her options. Who could accompany her back to Rome? Did the Empire still occupy Londontown? Could she board a transport there?

  Her breath caught.

  What about Bishop Elusius? If he and Quintus survived the invasion, the bishop would be able to negotiate terms with the Picts. Oh thank heavens.

  Valeria glanced at Pia. The dear woman observed the proceedings with a grim line forming her frown. She inched closer to whisper Pia’s ear. “I shall ask them to escort us back to Elusius.”

  Pia had no chance to reply before the king motioned for Valeria to come forward. She smoothed her hands over her tunic and reminded herself of her breeding. Head held high, her fists clenched at her sides, she walked forward to meet her fate. Despite her insides jittering, she pulled upon years of training and offered her most serene smile—calm as a pool on a still summer’s day.

  The king stepped forward and warily appraised her. “Prince Taran tells me ye showed him kindness in the Roman gaol.”

  “Yes, your highness. I did what I could.” Valeria’s eyes shot to Taran who gave her a wink, a flutter of hope.

  “Are ye aware the Picts have taken the wall from Houseteads to Arbiea, and the Gales to the west?”

  “No. I’m aware my father was murd…” She choked on the words and forced herself to breathe through the pain. “Ah…killed in the fighting.”

  “Many Roman soldiers sided with us in the rebellion. They were born here, raised by Pict women. They desired freedom from the tyranny of Rome.”

  Valeria cast her eyes down. Coming to Britannia, she had witnessed a taste of tyranny. But she was a Roman citizen. To voice her concerns would be treasonous.

  “Tell me about yer childhood.”

  Odd question, but not unfounded. “I was born into a noble family in Rome, the only child of Argus and Helena Fullofaudes. I lived a rather dull but privileged existence behind the cloisters of my father’s estate. Tutors educated me in languages, music and history until the death of my mother near five months ago.”

  “Ye lived at court?”

  “Yes. Once my father was sent to Britannia, we moved under the protection of Emperor Valentinian.”

  The king glanced at Taran. “Ye’ve brought a Roman noblewoman into Dunpelder?”

  Taran opened his mouth to speak, but Valeria held up her hand. “I am now an orphan, the least of care to the Emperor. But there is a bishop with whom I traveled who would negotiate my terms. Elusius left Vindolanda for the Pons Aelius the day of the invasion.”

  The king spun around and sat in an ornate hand-carved throne, the back adorned with antlers. He swiped his hand across his brow. “Pons Aelius is in eastern Northumbria, now under siege by the Attacotti. ’Tis not safe to travel there.”

  Valeria shot a desperate look at Taran and spread her palms. Taran nodded as if everything would be all right, but spoke not a word.

  The king folded his arms. “What skills have ye?”

  “Ah.” Valeria glanced back at Pia, who bobbed her head with encouragement. “I know languages, Latin, Greek, Celtic and some Anglo. I could teach the children to read and write.”

  “A teacher could be useful. What else?”

  “My slave…”

  “Slave?” Oisean stomped his foot. “The Picts keep no slaves.”

  “Yes of course. Pia is trained in the healing arts. She set Fionn’s ankle.”

  “Aye, she did,” Taran finally spoke.

  The king stroked his chin. “If ye bludgeoned Runan to death, the Attacotti will be ramming our stronghold. They’ll be wanting blood. Since you’re a Roman, I should hand ye over to those bleating bastards. But then, ye helped the heir to the throne of Gododdin.” He drummed his fingers on the claw-shaped armrest of his throne. At last, he gestured to an older woman with a pinched face who wore a grey wimple wrapped over her head and chin. “Morag will show ye to yer quarters and find some suitable clothes. We will grant ye a safe harbor until I decide what is to be done.”

  Valeria breathed a sigh of relief. Morag stepped forward. She grasped Valeria’s elbow and pulled her toward the stone stairwell. “Come.”

  Valeria curtsied and followed, beckoning Pia with her hand.

  “Roman,” the king bellowed.

  She stopped.

  “One traitorous move and I’ll burn ye at the stake.” The king’s voice echoed across the rafters. It was enough to make gooseflesh crawl across her skin. In poor health or not, she’d wager no one would dare cross that man without fearing their life was in peril.

  She glanced over her shoulder and caught Taran’s watchful eyes. She wished he could accompany her above stairs. She’d felt so safe riding in his arms. Now vulnerable, amid a bustle of strange people in a strange land, she needed those arms around her more than ever.

  Morag’s dark blue eyes assessed Valeria suspiciously as she led her and Pia to a chamber large enough for two straw pallets with a narrow walkway between. There was one stool and a small table with a pitcher and basin for washing. Though unaccustomed to such rudimentary quarters, Valeria was grateful for their kindness. After all, the king hadn’t opted to burn her at the stake, at least not yet.

  “Ye must be tired,” Morag said.

  “Yes. We were taken from our beds four nights ago.”

  “Ye can rest here.” Morag’s eyes trailed down her tattered sleeping tunic. She pursed her lips and huffed through her nose. “I’ll have the seamstress bring some clothes.”
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  “Thank you, we appreciate your hospitality.”

  Morag raised her eyebrows with a frown. “If it were up to me I would have burned ye, riding in here with Prince Taran like ye were the queen of Gododdin.”

  Valeria’s mouth fell open. She turned to Pia, who shook her head. Never in her life had she met with such insolence, and from a commoner. Affronted, she could think of no suitable response.

  Morag grasped the latch. “Ye better watch yer back, lest ye find a knife in it.”

  The slam of the door echoed between the walls. Valeria dashed into Pia’s arms. “My heavens, where have we landed?”

  “Worry not about that nasty woman. When they find out what a loving creature you are, all of this will be forgotten.”

  “I want to go back to Rome. This is the most loathsome, barbaric place I have ever seen in my life. Emperor Hadrian was right to build the wall where he did.”

  “Hush.” Pia touched her lips with her forefinger. “Who knows what ears lurk behind these walls. Taran and the other men treated us with kindness and respect. Are you going to let the misgivings of one bitter woman defeat you?”

  “Never.” Valeria walked over to the washbasin, poured in some water and splashed her face. She dabbed her cheeks with the small woolen cloth beside it. “You’re right. I shan’t allow Morag’s words to cloud my judgment. When things settle after this uprising, Taran will take us to Bishop Elusius and we can return to Rome.”

  “That’s better, my lady. Always remember who you are. In the meantime, with God’s grace, we can use our gifts to help others.”

  “You are a wise woman, Pia. What would I do without you?”

  Not long after Valeria settled on her pallet, she was awakened by a light tap. “I’ve yer clothes, m’lady.” A woman creaked open the door and held out an armful of neatly folded garments. “I’m Leda.”

  Pia ushered her in. “I’m Mistress Pia, servant to her ladyship, Valeria.”

  Leda stepped into their chamber with a bright, welcoming smile. Her dark blonde hair was curled in ringlets and her dimples made Valeria grin. “All of Dunpelder is agog with yer arrival.”

  “I hope ’tis a good thing. Mistress Morag gave us the impression that our presence is unappreciated.”

  “Aye, I could understand such unpleasantry coming from Morag. Her husband was killed by Roman scouts.”

  Valeria nodded with understanding and wondered why Oisean had appointed her to escort them. Possibly to ensure there would be no rebellious activity on their part. She harrumphed. The king was a shrewd man indeed.

  Leda held a beige gown against her shoulders. With a V-neck, it was similar to Valeria’s sleeping tunic, but sported long sleeves designed to extend past the hands, ending with a point. The woman had thought of everything, from woolen belts to slippers, combs and fine straps of leather for tying Valeria’s hair. She even had a grey frock and slippers for Pia.

  Leda fingered a lock of Valeria’s hair. “Yer tresses are as black as a raven’s. They’re beautiful.”

  “’Tis very kind of you to say. Thank you.”

  “’Tis I who should be thanking ye, m’lady. Ye brought my betrothed back to me.”

  Valeria’s heart flew up to her throat. “Oh? And who might that be?”

  “Why Taran, of course.”

  “Ah.” She clasped a hand over her mouth. “Of course.”

  It was all Valeria could do not to swoon on the spot. Taran was promised? How could he have omitted that? She knew she had no claim on him, but discovering this news confused her. They’d shared the same saddle for near two days, exchanging glances and a connection she’d never experienced with any man. How could he have looked at her that way, slept next to her, nearly kissed her, knowing Leda waited for him?

  The young woman inched toward the door. “Is there anything else you’ll be needing, m’lady?”

  Valeria forced a composed smile. “No. You’ve been most generous, thank you.”

  “Well, I’ll leave ye be then. The ram’s horn sounds for the evening meal and we all meet in the hall. Do not be late, else there’ll be nothing left.”

  Valeria was uncharacteristically quiet while Pia preened her hair in preparation for her appearance in the hall. Pia insisted Valeria represent herself as the aristocrat she was, insuring they would not treat her as a commoner. If they believed she had clout with Rome, Valeria was certain they would find interest in using her for ransom. The Picts would most likely choose to treat her as a proper guest rather than have her mucking out some pig sty.

  She winced with the pain from her hair being wrenched onto her head. Taran promised? I need to leave this place and soon.

  Chapter Eleven

  Taran took his place beside the king, who’d shed a considerable amount of bulk since he last saw him. The pain of his illness etched in the lines on his face. Oisean would not speak of it, however, and Taran planned to see him alone at the first opportunity to discover what ailed him.

  Lifting his tankard to his lips, he scanned the noisy hall. Pulsing heat spread across his skin. Valeria descended the stairs like a goddess. This could hardly be the woman who shared his horse adorned in nothing but a torn tunic, hair wildly blowing in the wind. She’d returned to her well-groomed, regal stature. The simple dress hugged her breasts as if there was not a finger’s width of fabric to spare.

  Slowly, he rested the tankard on the table. All conversation stopped as she floated toward him. Taran’s breath grew shallow. Unholy heat spread through his chest and turned to a raging wildfire in his loins.

  Blinking, he jumped to his feet and greeted her. “M’lady, I see ye’ve rested. Do yer quarters meet with yer approval?”

  Valeria raised her eyebrows with a cool smile, far less amenable than he’d seen at dawn that morning. “Yes, your king’s kindness has been most accommodating.”

  “Please join us.” He offered his elbow but Valeria seemed reluctant to take it.

  “And what of Pia?” she asked.

  “I’d be more comfortable going to the kitchen to lend a hand,” Pia said. The woman always lurked invisibly behind her lady, but she slipped away.

  Frowning, Valeria allowed Taran to lead her to the far end of the grand table, which actually consisted of many tables pushed together in a huge rectangle that filled the great hall. Roasted meat wafted from the kitchen as servers carried trenchers laden with legs of lamb, chicken and assorted legumes. Taran lifted a pitcher of mead and filled Valeria’s tankard.

  “Roman women are not allowed to drink wine.”

  “Oh? ’Tis not wine, ’tis mead.”

  Valeria pursed her lips and nodded.

  Oisean leaned forward and lifted his tankard. “I see ye’ve found some clothes and a comb, m’lady. I’m surprised half the bachelors in the shire didn’t ride to yer rescue.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Though facing Runan could have been a deterrent.”

  Taran laughed. His eyes trailed across the familiar faces and stopped at Leda. She nearly jumped out of her seat, waving with exuberance. Taran acknowledged her greeting with a quick nod. He ground his teeth. Dear Leda deserved better. His feelings for her had never gone deeper than friendship, and now he sat beside a woman who could make his mind blank and his lust stir with a bat of her eyelashes.

  Valeria’s delicate fingers lifted an eating knife. She reached for a leg of pork. Taran clamped his fingers over hers. The shock of touching her soft skin sent a shiver up his arm. “S-shall I help ye?”

  “Very well.” Her response was curt as she slid her hand out from under his.

  Was something amiss? His gut churned. Alas, coming home was bittersweet. He must face his responsibilities. But not this night.

  With her bronze crown resting atop a blue wimple, Queen Betha leaned forward, holding a chicken leg delicately between her fingers. “Valeria, do you have any special talents or interests?”

  “Oh yes. At home I rode my mare near every day, and I love to read.”

  Betha a
rched a brow. “No performing talents like singing or dancing?”

  “My father enjoyed it when I played the lyre and sang for him. I cannot say if it is a great talent, however.”

  “A lyre?” Oisean boomed. “Greum, fetch yer lyre. We’ll see if our guest finds it similar to her own.”

  Taran placed his hand over hers. “Are ye up to it? I’m sure me uncle would understand if ye needed some time to rest.”

  Valeria smiled and again slipped her hand away. “If the lyre plays like mine, it should not tax me too much.”

  Greum appeared with the harp and Valeria took it to the dais where she perched on a stool in front of the thrones. Taran swiveled around to watch, drumming his fingers. What the devil had gotten into her? When they were out in the wild, they were inseparable. Now she all but abhorred his touch. Bloody oath, he needed to protect her. Had she no idea of her own peril?

  Most the people in the hall were none too happy to have a Roman in their midst, and a botched performance could make them more resentful. Taran rubbed his palms on his surcoat, as uneasy for her as he would be for himself if he were up there. Of course he didn’t have the gift of music, so he’d never be up there strumming a lyre, but he’d feel a mite uncomfortable if he were.

  Valeria plucked the strings, adjusting their tone, and then looked up. The crowd was loud as always and the folk down near the end hadn’t noticed her at all.

  Oisean pounded the hilt of his dirk on the table. “Silence.” He waited for the roar to quiet to a low hum. “Our guest will try her hand at the Pictish lyre.”

  Taran held his breath as Valeria strummed the strings. She plucked a tune as lovely as the call of a willow warbler. Taran exhaled. The hall fell silent. With all eyes on her, she began to sing. Taran’s jaw dropped. She’d chosen a Celtic ballad, which bemoaned the story of a love lost at sea. He marveled at her intuitiveness, selecting a familiar tune.

  Her song rang through the vaulted rafters, clear and crisp. She sang with confidence. The swirling resonance of the lyre complemented her angelic voice. When the ballad ended, the only sound was the reverberation of the strings. Valeria focused on Oisean, her smile polite, but devoid of emotion.