Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1) by Amy Jarecki Page A

he was redder than the great Brude himself.
    Da stopped and shook him by the shoulders. “If ye’re not ready for bairns, you’d best keep yer cock under yer tunic and yer hands to yerself.”
    Da turned and plodded down the paddock, leaving Taran staring off behind him. Lesson learned—he kept his feelings in check with Valeria riding in front of him. But, he saw nothing wrong with savoring every moment with her. He may never have a chance to enjoy her in such close proximity again.
    “Taran?” she asked.
    “Aye.”
    “How old are you?”
    “One and twenty.” He wanted to ask her age, but knew it wasn’t proper.
    “I’m eight and ten and now I’m an orphan.”
    The pain in her voice pulled on his heart and he strengthened his grasp around her waist. “Ye must be mourning your loss, lass.”
    Her body racking against his chest, she wiped her face with her sleeve. “I don’t even have a handkerchief.”
    She began to weep again, this time unable to stop. Taran cradled her in his arms, wishing he could do something to bear the burden of her pain. He nuzzled her hair and closed his eyes. “ʼTis okay, lass. Let it go and ye’ll feel better on the morrow.”
    Half the morning had passed when her staccato breath slowed and she regained control. “I’m sorry to burden you with my troubles.”
    “ʼTis nothing. Ye must feel a terrible hole in yer heart.”
    “Yes, and I have no idea what I shall do.” Her head bowed with a ragged inhale.
    “Ye shouldn’t worry about that now, m’lady. We’ll be at Dunpelder by noontime and we’ll find ye a proper dress and a bed where ye can rest.”
    “Thank you. You have been more than kind.”
    “Yer own kindness at Vindolanda did not go unappreciated. I vow to protect ye until you no longer need me sword.”
    Valeria sat a bit taller in the saddle and inclined her face toward his. “Well then, gallant knight, lead on.”

     
     

Chapter Ten
     
     
    Valeria’s spirits lifted when a massive fortress broke through the mist on the horizon. Built upon a natural butte, the castle sat so high, it appeared to touch the heavens. Battlement walls encircled the stronghold. In the center, rising above the mighty walls, a donjon stood at least five stories high.
    “Dunpelder awaits,” Drust bellowed, spurring his horse to a canter.
    “Home,” Taran said, the relief in his voice unmistakable.
    As they neared, the fortress grew larger—almost as grand as Vindolanda herself. A castle such as this could harbor hundreds of people. It was built atop the colossal rock, which meant archers would have clear sight on all sides. “It looks to be a formidable fortress.”
    “Aye, that it is. There’s only one way up across the moat. Our sentries can see enemies approach for miles.”
    “I didn’t expect it to be quite so spectacular.”
    Greum leaned forward on his horse. “Dunpelder is the largest Pict stronghold and Gododdin the greatest kingdom in the Pict nation. ʼTis the seat of the king.”
    Taran slapped his reins and drew in beside Drust. The wind picked up Valeria’s hair. She threw her head back and laughed.
    They rode past shaggy cattle grazing and a healthy flock of sheep. At the base of the butte, Valeria craned her neck. The path led up a steep incline to the fortress gate. How on earth could anyone fight against a keep as daunting as Dunpelder? She’d only heard derogatory remarks about the savage people beyond Roman Britannia and had assumed they all lived in hovels in the ground. If their architecture was an indication of the power of the Picts, there was no question why Emperor Hadrian had chosen to erect the wall and decree the land beyond untamable. The Picts would not be easily conquered.
    The fortress gates opened and Valeria beheld a courtyard of activity. The blacksmith’s shed clanged with hammers working iron. The smell of baking bread made her mouth water. Two men chopped wood, chickens cackled and ahead, young lads practiced swordsmanship.
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