Love's Blazing Ecstasy (19 page)

“I love your touch,” she whispered.

“And I love you. I love your smile, your voice, your courage.” He gathered her into an embrace, whispering in her ear, “I love  the taste of you, the feel of your body next to mine.” He whispered words of love over and over again, and she sighed as a languid warmth spread through her body.

Wynne watched him remove his cuirass, his boots, his tunic, his loincloth. She had forgotten the beauty of his lean muscular body but she
took pleasure in looking at his manly beauty now. He was so handsome, so strong—yet so gentle.

Reaching out, she caressed him, feeling his back, the muscles of his thighs, his buttocks. Her eyes touched his manhood, standing stiff and proud with passion for her and the sight of it brought an ache between her legs as she remembered what pleasure they had shared.

“Touch me,” he moaned, guiding her hand.  At the soft caress of her fingers, he shuddered, then pulled her closer, rolling her over until they were lying side by side.  She felt a great pleasure in the warmth and power of the firmly muscled body straining so hungrily against hers.

His knowing, seeking lips moved with tender urgency across hers, his tongue finding again the inner warmth and sweetness of her mouth.  But kisses weren’t enough.  Wynne
sensuously undulated her hips against his legs, and every time their bodies caressed, each experienced a shock of raw desire that encompassed them in fiery, pulsating sensations.

Valerian slid his hand down the velvety flesh of her belly, moving to that place between her thighs that ached for his entry. His gentle probing brought sweet fire, curling deep inside her with spirals of pulsating sensations.

“Oh, Wynne, Wynne,” he breathed.  Again he kissed her, her mouth opening to his probing tongue, his soft lips. It was as if they had been created each for the other, they fit so perfectly together. Valerian trailed hot kisses across her neck and breasts, his hand once again gently exploring, probing and caressing the hidden core of her being, setting her aflame. Her arms cradled his head to her breasts as his mouth teased the swollen peaks.

Gently Valerian parted her legs and entered her with his hardness—just a little then pausing
, leaving her and then entering her again until every inch of her tingled with an intense arousing awareness of his body and her own. Raising her hips she moved her body upward, pushing him deep within her, fusing their bodies.

Wynne gasped, breathless with pleasure. Their bodies moved together like a summer storm—wild and sweet. His rhythmic plunges aroused a tingling fire and she arched herself up to him, fully expressing her love.  As she gazed into his eyes she felt as if they were joined in spirit as well as in flesh.

Valerian stroked her hair, murmuring words of love, sending shivers of delight through her and she knew that she loved this Roman—loved her enemy.  No, never that.  He was her lover, the man who made her heart soar and her soul breathe free.  He was the man she wanted to share her life with. And if possible every incarnation of their lives for eternity.

“Valerian….” She murmured as at last they lay entangled, drenched with the dew of their love.  She sighed in contentment, cradled in his arms and though she meant only to close her eyes for a moment, she fell fast asleep.

Much later Wynne opened her eyes and smiled as she beheld her lover, the smooth muscles of his chest and arms brushing against her. She noticed a scar on his shoulder and traced it with her finger.

“I killed during the battle where I got this wound,” Valerian said sorrowfully. “Celtic blood is on my conscience, Wynne. How I hate it. It’s as if you can never get the blood off your hands.”

“A warrior must kill,” she answered softly—refusing to condemn him.

“Perhaps, but killing is so often senseless. Blood begets more blood, until we drown in a red sea of our own making.”

She started to speak, but he silenced her. “Don’t talk. I want to love you. I need you so. I’ve wanted you for so long…dreamed about you…”

“And I about you.”

He cupped her face with his hands. “You have gone through so much for our love.” He kissed her softly, his mouth sweet yet firm on hers.

Wynne put her arms around him and clung to him, urging him back down upon her body; her senses whirled and soared as he again covered her softness with his hard, strong body.

“Love me again, Valerian,” she whispered breathlessly.

With a groan
he made love to her again. She moaned and dug her fingers into his flesh as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over them. They were one, joined, forged—like iron. So great was her pleasure that it seemed to her that surely she had died and gone beyond this world to the realms of the gods. She whispered his name over and over again as Valerian held her close, sharing her passion.

Wynne lay together with Valerian in their warm tangle of arms and legs, savoring the sweetness of their lovemaking. Valerian moaned and stirred, reaching out to caress her. Suddenly his eyes flew open and he was fully awake.

“Severus. I had forgotten. He will be here in two days with his legion.” He sat up, his heart beating wildly. He had been so caught up in the enchantment of their lovemaking that he had closed his mind to all else. And Wynne, he realized, must return to her camp before she caused worry.

She understood his anxiety. “I must go,” she whispered with regret. Now that she had found him again, she did not want to be parted, but she still had a deer to kill, and dusk would soon be approaching.

“Wynne. You must make your people understand that they must offer the
Romans peace, for if they do not, they will be slaughtered. The Romans far outnumber your warriors, and although I do not doubt that they are fine fighters, they cannot win against the might of Rome.”

“No,” she said stubbornly. She rose and stood before him, her body gleaming like a statue in the
dim light.

Quickly he got up, coming behind her and putting his arms around her slim waist. This was going to be more difficult than he had imagined, but he had to make her understand. “Many of your people have made peace with the
Romans, retaining the Celtic chiefs who were their leaders. The only difference is that they become Roman officials.”

Her eyes held such fury that he was taken aback. “I spit on them. They are not Celts. They dress like
Romans, talk like Romans, worship gods of Romans. No, they are not Celts.”

Valerian had to agree with her, yet even though he knew that her people would be greatly changed under
Roman rule he still had to protect them from the slaughter he knew would occur. Better Roman than dead. He recalled what Severus had told him about the northwest tribes that had refused to listen to the voice of the empire or to lay aside their native habits and warlike ways. Although he admired such courage—they had met death and would soon be forgotten.

“Trust me, Wynne,” he said, looking deep into her eyes. “The
Romans will soon leave and you will be free to do as you will. There are many tribes which have done so.” He felt guilt wash over him, for he knew well what would happen. They would become Romanized, and a certain amount of freedom would be gone. It would only be a matter of time before the fiery Celt would be changed into the orderly Roman citizen.

Wynne’s eyes mirrored her
trust. Valerian would not hurt her people; he must be speaking the truth. Perhaps if the Romans were as fierce as he said, it would be better to be their friends. Her tribe had lived in peace for a long while now; they were not really prepared for the war which was to come.

“Perhaps we
will make peace, but my tribe must keep the old gods, for we cannot make the gods angry.” Her chin jutted out with her defiance.

“Yes,” he agreed, hoping that he could convince Severus to allow them to keep the Druid priests. He knew in the fruitful plains of the southeast where the Latinized Britons were concentrated, many of the gods had been blended eventually, many couples formed by the association of a
Roman god and a native goddess, a sort of marriage between beliefs.

Wynne smiled at him as he gathered her into his arms, then she kissed him.  “No
w I will go,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said regretfully, “before I no longer have the power to let you escape from me.” He patted her playfully on the behind to start her on her way, watching her dress, caressing her with his eyes. “You will speak to your people?”

“I will talk with my father, convince him to let me sit at the council. Women can do so if it is a matter of importance. It is the custom of our tribe.” Valerian gave a relieved sigh, happy that this worry that had plagued his days and nights was now to be lifted. He would hurry with his legion, search for Severus, and give him the news. There would be no war.

“I will meet you here tomorrow for your tribe’s answer,” he said, “at the setting of the sun.”

“Tomorrow. Dusk,” she repeated, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him in farewell. She left the cave, glancing back at him from time to time. Valerian watched her go, knowing that this time when he left he would take her with him. He could not leave her again. If need be, he would take her father back with him too. He would see that the bard was well cared for.

“The world is beautiful!” he declared, whistling merrily as he left the cave to return to Burrus. Wynne would make her people understand the need for peace. He would convince Severus of the same thing. All would be well. And when he left, returned to Eboracum, he would have the woman he loved by his side.

Sloan awaited him not far from the cave, and Valerian mounted the horse to make his way back to his legion.

Chapter Twenty-Six

In the lodge of Adair, Brenna paced back and forth. Where was
Duncan? He had promised once and for all to get rid of the girl. Had he bungled the job as Ferdiad had?  Would he also need a knife in the back? She thought of her hulking kinsman, regretful that she had been forced to kill him, but she could take no chances. She was high priestess of the followers of Domnu; Domnu of the Darkness, and she would do anything, say anything and kill anyone who got in her way.

It had been simple matter to get rid of Adair’s daughter.  She had told
Duncan that Wynne would be out in the forest hunting. How could he miss finding her with that mane of golden hair glowing in the sun?

Duncan had best be able to tell me when he returns that my husband’s daughter is safely out of our way,
she thought with anger. How she had hated Wynne right from the first. And then that night at the ceremony when she had so eagerly awaited the sacrifice of the handsome Roman, only to find that the chit had cut his bonds. Brenna had ordered that the dark-haired Roman be given a potion of white bryony and nightshade—belladonna—for the mating ceremony. He would have been a powerful lover, she knew. And afterward she would have given him as a sacrifice to the goddess Domnu herself, a blazing offering at the festival of the Feast of Five Fires.

Brenna could hear the snores of her husband as he slept on his bedshelf across the room
and gritted her teeth. How she hated being tied to him now. Of course, before his accident he had been a fine lover, but no more.

You helpless old man
, she thought vehemently looking at him.
Why didn’t you die?
Well, perhaps once his daughter was safely out of the way she would see to his death also. She would not be forced to care for him, this she vowed.

Brenna was jealous of the power Adair had a
lways had. Perhaps that was why she had become the priestess of Domnu.

Men. So foolish in their puffed up pride. They were so easy to manipulate. Their brains were always in their manhood, she thought with scorn. Who were they to say that a woman could not hold the priesthood? It was just one more way in which they controlled a woman’s destiny, made her a servant to their desires, a brood mare to bring forth their seed. She laughed as she remembered how eagerly Adair had awaited the birth of a son from her loins, little knowing that she had carefully used her herbs to bring on the
heavy flow of her monthly time and to make herself infertile, because the demons of the night, the dark ones, decreed that a priestess should be barren.

Looking down at Adair as he slept she could see that his face was ravaged by despair at the uselessness of his legs. True, he had once been
a strong man and a forceful lover. She would never forget their wedding night. But those days were gone forever. Duncan pleasured her now, and if he was not as handsome, well, he would do for the time being.

She would have made such a fine Druid priest
, she thought. She was strong and cunning. The only thing she lacked was that piece of flesh that hung between a man’s legs—and the twin sacks on either side--that marked him as a male.  As if intelligence and leadership was located there!

A sudden impulse to wear Adair’s Druid robes overcame her.
Giving in to her temptation, she gazed down at Adair, watching as he slumbered as soundly as one dead, then she walked to the silver clothing chest where he kept his sacred garments.  Slowly she opened the lid, running her fingers over Adair’s sacred robe. How different his white linen robe felt from her own coarse black priestess robe. Was there magic in the robes as she had heard?  Curiosity got the better of her and she slipped the robe over her shoulders, unaware of the eyes which watched her from across the room.