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

sword clashed against Runan’s, the two men matched well. But the dragon-hearted Attacotti were no match for the Pict fortress.
    Runan’s man had to pull him away, but the tip of Oisean’s blade had slit open his cheek. “I’ll be back and I’ll rape your women and destroy your seed…” Taran spoke enough of the Attacotti language to understand Runan’s threat. The bastard’s words echoed across the stronghold as he rode away, wiping his bloody cheek with the back of his arm. The memory had haunted Taran many a night. He vowed he would protect the kingdom of Gododdin from the Attacotti, and any other bastard who threatened their freedom. He detested them all—Romans, Gaels, Saxons—anyone who attempted to plunder Pict land would face his ire.
    Taran snapped back to the present. The terrain became more familiar. He urged his horse alongside Drust. “We’re nearing the ruins of the Antonine Wall. That’s the best place to mount our attack.”
    “Do ye think they’ll bed down soon?” Greum asked.
    “Definitely before they reach Antonine. In another mile or two, the sun should start to rise. We’ll ride around their flank and cut them off.”
    “Aye,” Drust said. “Good plan.”
    Taran led the men off the main path along an arm they knew well. If his intuition was right, Runan would lead his band into a glade to sleep through the day. When they headed out at dusk, Taran would be waiting for them.
    Blackie cantered smoothly across the grassy trail. With Stag at his side, Taran wished he could ride forever. The crisp breeze at his face calmed him—exactly what he needed to clear two years of pent-up hostility.
    Behind him, a thud pummeled the ground. Fionn’s youthful voice bellowed an agonizing wail. Taran pulled up and rounded his horse. “What the bloody hell?”
    He didn’t need a reply, Fionn’s anklebone jutted out at an awkward angle. Writhing, the lad rolled side-to-side, making a terrible racket. Taran hopped down from his horse and grabbed a stick. He shoved it between Fionn’s teeth. “Bite down on this and keep yer voice low, ye squawking magpie.”
    Drust kneeled beside them. “Och. That’s a nasty break. We’ll need to take him to Morag.”
    Taran frowned. “Ye think ye can hold on until this business is over? We can sit ye by the stone with Stag.”
    Fionn nodded, his breathing rapid, beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He’d gone white as his tunic.
    Taran stroked the boy’s head. “We’ll have ye fixed up, but ye must bear it for a time. Show us the man ye are.”
    Greum came up beside him, leading Fionn’s gelding. “He’s lame, but nothing’s broken. A month in the paddock ought to fix him right up.”
    Taran looked to the skies. “ʼTis all we need.”
    He stooped and shoved his hands under Fionn’s backside. “Bite down on your stick.” He hefted the lad into Blackie’s saddle. The poor blighter panted with a strained cry. Taran glanced at Drust. His stern frown reflected everyone’s fears. Fionn’s racket had been enough to wake the dead.
    They rode past an old Pict stone, which stood twenty-four hands. On the top was carved the sign of an ancient king named Erp, indicated by a seabeast and dagger. Under it was a Z-rod over a shield, the sign of King Ferat. It meant Erp, son of Ferat, and the carving beneath depicted the story of the battle Erp and his men forged on that very spot.
    They propped Fionn against the ancient stone. Taran set a waterskin beside him. “Ye’ll be safe here. The spirits of our ancestors will hide ye from our enemies.” He held his palm in front of Stag’s nose. “Stay.”
    When they set out for Antonine, the sun had already begun to rise. They’d lost precious time.
    “I don’t like it,” Drust grumbled.
    “Nor do I.” Taran’s fist tightened around his reins. A mishap like this could cast bad luck upon their mission, but they couldn’t stop now.
    Taran held up his hand when they approached the decaying ramparts of the