Love's Blazing Ecstasy (2 page)

“May the gods be with me,” she said softly, feeling the strength of their presence.

A sudden noise behind her alerted her to danger. Instincts guided her reflexes as she turned around and stepped aside just in time to avoid being crushed by a large rock hurled at her by one of the cloaked men. With a start she realized that the huge man was completely naked under his robe, with symbols painted on his bare flesh. She did not have time to ponder the meaning of the writings, however, for the man was coming toward her, intent on killing her.

Gripping the sword tightly in her hand, Wynne made ready to defend herself.

Looking up toward the heavens, the
Roman said a prayer to his gods. He was not afraid of death, he was a soldier. Yet to die like this, to be burned alive, was a macabre end. To meet his end trussed up like a chicken on a spit was more than he could abide. He had heard tales about these heathens and their human sacrifices, but until this moment he had not realized they were true. His eyes strayed to the huge basket. Was this to be his prison or his funeral pyre?

His hands worked feverishly at his bonds until his wrists were blistered and bleeding. He would not give up until every ounce of his strength was gone. Closing his eyes, he cursed these shrouded figures whose singing was nearly driving him mad.

What potion did they force me to drink?
He wondered fearfully. Certainly it would not be poison, for that would take all the fun out of their ritual. He felt light-headed, dizzy. He shook his head to clear it of its spinning. Was it the brew that had been forced between his lips which caused him to think that there was someone watching him from the bushes? Had it been only his imagination that had made him believe that he had heard a woman’s voice cry out in anguish a few moments ago? No, there had been someone there. He was sure of it.

“Minerva, Goddess of Wisdom and War, hear me,” he pleaded. “Save me from this doom and I will forever serve you!”

As if in answer to his prayer, he saw her. It was Minerva herself grappling with one of the hooded barbarians. Strange, he had always thought that the goddess would have dark hair, and yet her hair was so light, like spun gold. She was beautiful. More beautiful than he could ever have imagined.

He tried to watch, but the drug was overpowering him. Trying to control his strength, he closed his eyes and with one final pull sought to free himself, but the ropes held him tight. He felt himself fall into unconsciousness.

Whirling around and around like partners in a dance, Wynne and her opponent fought each other. T
he man was three times her size—big and bulky, but she was armed with a sword and she was more agile. Still, he seemed to be able to doge her blows, coming closer and closer to her each time.

“You are tiring, no?” the huge man asked with a
malevolent smile.

She shook her head and lunged at him again, but she didn’t
know how long she could go on. Another fear gripped her heart. What if the others returned? She must strike a blow at him now, before she was outnumbered and subdued. Fear of joining the Roman as a prisoner goaded her into feats of daring and aptitude she didn’t know existed within her.

Encumbered by his cloak, the man removed it and now
stood naked before her. Wynne tore off her cloak, but didn’t have time to remove her gown. Besides even though her gown threatened to trip her, she didn’t want to face this giant in all her natural glory.  She would have to be careful.

Wynne thrust again and again with the sword, but the giant of a man was more than a match for her.
Although she had been able to hold him back so far, she feared the outcome.  She had to think of a way to outwit or out-maneuver him.

A sudden idea came to her.
“Sloan!” she called. The horse was by her side in an instant, pawing the ground before him. For a moment her huge opponent was distracted, but it was just enough time for her to strike a strong blow to the side of his head.  When he moved she struck him again, harder this time.

Holding the sword above him, Wynne looked
down upon the unconscious mountain of flesh, her hands shaking.  She had always valued life and now found that she could not kill him—wicked though he was--murder was not in her blood. She would let him live, but she must make certain that he could not warn the others. Taking off her belt, she tied him securely to a nearby tree and stuffed the end of his discarded cloak in his mouth to keep him from calling for help.

I hope that my kindness will not be my undoing
, she thought, slinging her cloak over her head and shoulders. Still, she had never killed anyone and did not want to do so now. Jumping once again upon the horse’s back, sword raised upward in her left hand, Wynne started toward the captive. As she rode, the hood of her cloak fell to her shoulders, her long blond hair glowing nearly golden in the moonlight.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, succumbing to hallucinations, the Roman watched his rescuer. Cloaked in black, riding her magnificent black stallion, hair billowing wildly about her shoulders, she indeed looked like Minerva. She was a breathtaking sight, yet he felt no fear of her, knew that she had come to free him.

He saw her jump from her horse, felt the swift thrust of a sword as she quickly severed the ropes which bound him. He felt the softness of her hands as she touched him, and then he sensed nothing more. He slumped upon the hard ground in a swirl of darkness.

Chapter  Two

The first rays of sunlight gently caressed her face as Wynne welcomed the dawn. She looked down at the sleeping form of the Roman, could see him clearly now in the light. He was handsome, this stranger, perhaps even more handsome than her father, if that were possible. He was powerfully built, perhaps a few inches taller than her father, but whereas Adair was lithe and lean, this man was muscular. His hair was short, cropped close to his head in raven-black curls; it was unlike the long loose or plaited hair of the men in her tribe. She had the urge to touch the shining curls but quickly drew back her hand as the man sighed heavily in his sleep.

Who are you?
she wondered as she studied his features, the high cheekbones, fine chiseled nose, the long dark eyelashes which cast a shadow on his face. She couldn’t help but wonder what color his eyes were—blue or green. He had a small cleft in his chin, which fascinated her. This time she couldn’t resist the urge to reach out and touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin against her soft hand. She ran her finger lightly over his face as if memorizing it. The man again stirred in his deep slumber, and Wynne drew back her hand.

I’ve never seen a
Roman up close before
, she thought.
I have been told that they are unworldly monsters, but he is flesh and blood.
  Most definitely human.

It was chilly without her cloak, but she had relinquished it to the stranger, fearful that after his ordeal he might become ill without its warmth.
  But even draped in her cloak she could see the outline of his muscular form and his body fascinated her. The Celts had told stories where the Romans had bronze scales like fish, but this Roman’s chest was made of flesh covered with a light thatch of hair. His arms were well muscled, his legs well formed and between those legs….  She blushed as she thought of what had been said about that part of a Roman’s body, that it was a battering ram with which to force themselves upon captive Celtic women.

Forcing herself to look away,
Wynne rose to her feet, hoping that by moving around she could bring back a little warmth to her body. As she walked, back and forth, she thought about what had happened during the night, and was amazed at her bravery, at her skill in fighting the dark-robed giant. She was thankful now to her father for training her in the handling of arms, a practice not unusual among her people, for women in some of the tribes were even known to sit among the men in the war councils. Yet, if not for her father’s badgering, she would not have become as skilled as she had at wielding a sword.

Wynne shuddered, this time at the memory of the hulking giant she had been forced to fight.
He had come upon her with such anger, such hatred, that she knew he would have killed her had she let down her guard even for an instant.  Closing her eyes she could see his face. It had been vaguely familiar to her, but she could not place where she had seen him before.

The sound of the stranger murmuring in his sleep interrupted her thoughts and she hurried to his side. It had been a struggle for her to lift his body and put him on Sloan’s back after she had cut his bonds. Somehow she had managed to do so, as if aided by some unseen force, some inner strength. She had ridden to this spot which was very precious to her, her childhood hideaway.

“Minerva….Minerva…so beautiful.” The stranger moaned in his language. She reached out to soothe his brow, thankful that there appeared to be no fever. She wondered what he had been forced to drink. Most likely belladonna made from the nightshade plant. It was often used by those who practiced the dark arts. It was even said that the evil ones could fly when it was rubbed on them as an ointment. Why had he been forced to partake of their drink? What part did it hold in their ceremony?

Suddenly t
he dark-haired man’s eyes flew open as Wynne gazed upon him and she was surprised by the color of his eyes. They were not blue, not green, nor gray, but almost golden in their hue, an amber brown.

“You’re here…Minerva,” he breathed. He reached out his large hand and captured
a few strands of her hair. “I never dreamed that I would ever be able to touch a goddess.”

His eyes raked over her. She was tall, but of course a goddess would be. Her hair framed her oval face and tumbled down around her shoulders, ending far below her waist. Her face was beautiful, with a straight, perfectly sculptured nose, firm chin, large blue eyes surrounded by thick brown lashes,
and full sensuous lips. His eyes took in all or her—the full firm breasts, long legs, small waist, well-rounded hips. She was perfect. Even the shapeless blue gown that she wore could not hide that fact.

“You are beautiful!” he exclaimed, longing to feel her body next to his own.
Was it the potion working as an aphrodisiac or her striking looks that were sparking his desires?

He remembered stories from the days of old which told of goddesses who loved mortal men and mated with them. He knew at that moment that above all else this was his desire, that Minerva would love him. He reached out to touch her, gently taking her arm and pulling her to
ward him. She smelled of violets and early-morning air.

His eyes caressed hers.
“I want to feel your lips against mine,” he breathed as his strong arm encircled her waist, pressing her close against him. His lips brushed against hers, light as the stroke of a butterfly’s wing. Then he kissed her again, this time his mouth devouring the honey of her lips.

Wynne opened her eyes wide with astonishment. What was this touching of mouths?
It was not a custom of the Celts. His lips had captured hers so suddenly, but she liked the feel of his mouth on hers. Closing her eyes, she accepted the gentle pressure, the exploration of his lips and tongue. A spark went through her veins but she was not sure how to react, what to do, but when his lips parted once more she mimicked the caress of his mouth upon hers and gently moved her lips on his. He groaned and tightened his arms around her until she could scarcely breathe.

The warm sweetness of her kisses
kindled his desire. Forgotten now was all else but her nearness. The fragrance of her skin and hair tantalized him, the softness of her skin and hair enchanted him. He reached out his hand to touch her hips, moving upward to cup the fullness of her breast, his hand stroking the taut peak in a lingering touch.

Wynne froze, the spell broken, and moved away from him as if she had been burned. She trembled at the unexpected fire which had coursed through her body at the touch of this stranger. She was fearful of his power over her and confused by the reaction she’d had to his touch.
He wasn’t one of her own kind.  She had to remember that he was a Roman.

The dark-haired man was surprised at her actions, at the shocked look on her face, the fear written across her perfect features. Wasn’t it natural, after all, for a man to desire a beautiful woman, goddess or mortal? Why, she acted almost like an innocent or a virgin. So it was true, then, what was said of Minerva, that s
he was untouched and pure. The Roman was suddenly afraid that he had offended her. Would she strike him down in anger for his boldness?

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, looking into her wide blue eyes. “But you are so beautiful. Are you angry with me?”

Wynne looked at him, still aroused by his nearness, feeling awkward and shy as he stared at her. She shook her head, wondering what he was saying in his Roman language. Her father had dealt with the Romans and knew many of their words. He had taught her a little bit of their language—Latin it was called---but not enough for her to understand everything this stranger was saying to her. She motioned with her hands, telling him to lie back, not knowing if he should exert himself after his ordeal.

“Why…why you don’t understand
what I’m saying!” The truth of this struck him like a blow. No wonder she had kept silent all the while he had been praising her charms, and had not denied him the kiss. His words had been just so much gibberish to her ears.