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

boy raced up to Blackie. “Prince Taran, och aye, ʼtis good to see ye.”
    Taran hopped down and gave the reins to the lad. “Tomas? My oath, ye’re nearly a grown man.” He reached up and helped Valeria to dismount.
    “I’m two and ten,” the lad said, puffing out his skinny chest with pride. “The king’s waiting in the great hall.”
    “Ta.” Taran gave the boy a friendly pat on the head.
    Valeria tapped his shoulder. “Prince?”
    Taran shrugged. “It is the way of the royal female line. I’ll explain later. Come, meet me uncle—Oisean, Chieftain of Gododdin, King over all Pict tribes.”
    Valeria dug in her heels. Taran had just disclosed he’s the heir to the throne, and now she must meet the king? “You cannot be serious. I’m not dressed, I have not combed my hair in days and I have no shoes. I shall not be presented to a king in this shambled state of dress.”
    Drust rolled his eyes. “The way she carries on, you’d think she was related to Emperor Valentinian, himself.”
    “Her ladyship is his niece,” Pia said, folding her arms.
    Valeria straightened her spine like a board. She tipped up her chin. Both Taran and Drust looked from Pia to her and back.
    The nursemaid thumped her chest. “I probably should have held my tongue because you lot might hold her for ransom, but this little girl is a member of the Emperor’s court, sole benefactor of the Fullofaudes family estates.” She increased her tenor. “Which are very large indeed.”
    Valeria tapped her foot. “You see, I do have a reputation to uphold.”
    “Aye, but that changes nothing, at least for now.” Taran grasped her elbow. “We’ll meet with the king and I’ll request a change of clothes and guest’s quarters for ye. ʼTis the best I can offer, unless ye want to be left to the crowd. Picts do not take too kindly to Romans, m’lady.”
    Valeria hadn’t noticed the gathering of curious souls surrounding them. All stared at what remained of her Roman costume. With the sensation of a lead ball sinking to the pit of her stomach, she agreed. “Your terms are acceptable.”
    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