Maximus: A Medieval Scottish Romance (The Immortal Highland Centurions Book 1) Read online

  “He’d better not bloody our bed linen,” Morag sniffed, before turning back to the large iron stove, where a second batch of pies were baking. The remains of the first batch still sat upon the table, getting cold.

  “It won’t be his fault if he does,” Heather snapped. “Is this how Fintry welcomes strangers?”

  Maximus stripped off his leather jerkin and inspected the wound on his left bicep. That dirk blade had cut him deep, but the wound was already healing; he could feel the itch as the flesh knitted together.

  Letting out a long sigh, Maximus scrubbed a hand through his short hair. Why was it that wherever he went, he never failed to find trouble? Or maybe, trouble was always looking for him—either way, it always ended the same.

  What a waste of silver.

  He’d been enjoying that pie, the sweet bramble wine, and the warmth of the hearth. The last thing he’d wanted was a brawl—and as comely as that serving lass was, he really hadn’t been in the mood to defend her virtue.

  Yet he couldn’t let that jumped-up laird’s son humiliate her.

  No one else in the common room had defended the woman, and Maximus had the feeling that Cory Galbraith intimidated them all.

  Well done … you’ve made an enemy there.

  Maximus’s mouth curved. Even though he spent most of his time living alone in the wilds these days, he’d made enough enemies over the years not to let this new one bother him.

  However, he hadn’t missed Galbraith’s parting threat. Heather had more to fear than he did.

  His smile faded. He’d stepped in to help the serving lass, but perhaps he’d just made things worse for her. Maximus’s mouth flattened into a thin line. Enough worrying about a woman he’d only just met. He had his own future to think about.

  The Broom-star was once again gracing the heavens. A narrow window of opportunity had opened, and he needed to get to Stirling to see if Cassian and Draco had gotten any closer to solving that damn riddle.

  The answer had eluded them all for so long he was beginning to think they’d never solve it. Maybe they’d remain alive till the world’s ending, just as the bandruí had foretold.

  The heaviness that dogged his steps these days increased.

  It had been a particularly harsh winter, and the months alone hadn’t done him much good.

  The thought of continuing like this forever made his chest ache.

  With a sigh, Maximus sat down upon the narrow bed. Alone in the tiny chamber, on the top floor of the tavern, he took in the freshly white-washed walls and pots of dried flowers decorating the room. The ceiling was so low that the heavy beams nearly brushed the crown of his head when he stood up. Even so, it was a roof over his head after many nights sleeping on frosted ground. A small hearth burned against one wall, warming the damp air.

  Maximus sniffed before wrinkling his nose. There was a rank smell in here, and he realized it was coming from him. He was in need of a bath—and fortunately he’d spotted a large bowl of water upon a table by the single shuttered window. A coarse drying cloth and a cracked cake of lye soap sat next to it.

  He rose to his feet, stripped off the rest of his clothing, and crossed to the bowl.

  The water was cold, and he gritted his teeth against it as he bathed, scrubbing away the blood, sweat, and grime of the past few days. The wash was bracing, yet he enjoyed how his skin tingled in the aftermath.

  Finishing his wash, Maximus pulled on his leather leggings and padded barefoot back over to the narrow bed. He then stretched out onto the scratchy woolen blanket, his gaze traveling to the beams above his head.

  His belly growled, reminding him that he was still hungry. Those idiots had spoiled the best pie he’d tasted in a long while. He wondered if he could risk a trip down to the kitchen and request more food.

  The brawl hadn’t been his fault after all.

  I could go down and see Heather again.

  For a moment, he allowed himself to dwell upon her sensual mouth and winsome smile. He hadn’t liked to see Galbraith grope the woman, but he certainly understood why the laird’s son lusted after her. She had the body of a goddess. Maximus’s groin ached as he recalled the way her lush breasts had heaved in outrage, and he clenched his jaw. He definitely needed to find a brothel once he reached Stirling. The ache for a woman was going to drive him to do something ill-advised if he wasn’t careful.

  Maximus’s belly rumbled once more, interrupting his brooding.

  With a groan, he sat up. Maybe I should risk a trip downstairs. He was debating whether or not to go when a soft knock sounded at the door.

  His hand instinctively went to the dagger he’d lain on the bedside table. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Heather,” a low female voice answered. “I’ve brought ye some more supper.”

  V

  THE GREATEST

  THE DOOR OPENED, revealing a half-naked man standing before her.

  Heather sucked in a surprised breath. She hadn’t expected to be greeted by such a sight. The stranger was barefoot and clad only in a pair of tight leather leggings that hugged his lean form. She took him in, noting the smooth, muscular, tanned expanse of his chest, and the faded tattoo that had been inked into his skin, a few inches above his right nipple: the mark of an eagle, its wings spread.

  The man’s black hair was damp, revealing that he’d just bathed.

  For a long moment, Heather stood there, staring at him, and then heat flowered across her chest as embarrassment set in. The man didn’t say anything; he just watched her, his gaze shuttered.

  Releasing the breath she’d been holding, Heather brazened out the moment with a smile. She inclined her chin right, to where she balanced a tray of fresh pie and a jug of wine against her hip, before holding up the basket she grasped in her left hand.

  “I thought ye’d still be hungry,” she said, the words rushing out of her, “and that someone should take a look at that cut on yer arm.” Her gaze flicked to his left bicep. She couldn’t see the wound properly in the shadowy doorway, yet at least it wasn’t bleeding.

  “Thank you for the food,” he said, taking the tray from her and stepping back from the doorway. “But I’m sure the wound will be fine. It’s just a graze.”

  Heather made an impatient noise in the back of her throat. “A graze? I saw Cory’s blade dig deep into yer flesh. I wouldn’t be surprised if the wound needs stitching. Lucky for ye, every good Scottish lass knows how to tend wounds.”

  She was burbling, but his intense look was making her nervous. Keen to break the tension, Heather bustled past him into the chamber, nudging the door closed behind her. There was a chill draft in the hallway, and she didn’t want to let the heat out of the room, especially considering this man’s state of undress.

  “Very well then,” he replied, not bothering to hide the long-suffering edge to his voice. He set the tray down upon a narrow table opposite the bed and poured himself a cup of wine before taking a deep draft. “Take a look at my arm, if you wish.”

  The stranger set the cup down and moved back, perching upon the edge of the bed. And when his dark gaze settled upon her, the heat that still stained her chest started to creep up Heather’s neck.

  He had an unnerving look, as if he were reading her innermost thoughts.

  It was disconcerting—and compelling.

  It was bold to knock on a stranger’s door and invite oneself in. But Heather felt responsible for the injury he’d sustained, and she wanted to make sure that he was alright. She’d been unable to settle downstairs, and when she’d ensured the other customers had been served their supper, she’d left Alana—Aonghus and Morag’s daughter—to see to them should they need anything else.

  Visions of the man bleeding out all over the floor in his room had tortured her, making Heather gather the healing basket Morag kept in the scullery before hurrying upstairs.

  However, when her gaze alighted upon the cut Cory had inflicted, she caught her breath in surprise.

  As the man assur
ed her, it wasn’t as deep as she’d first thought. Setting down the basket of ointments, herbs, and bandages, she bent close, peering at the wound. It looked to have only cut the skin, and not the muscle underneath as she’d thought.

  “Mother Mary … ye were right,” she murmured. “But I should clean and bandage it all the same.”

  The stranger shrugged, his gaze never leaving her face. “If you think it needs it.”

  Heat was now creeping up her neck in a warm tide. His stare made her feel flayed bare. This close, she noticed what long, dark eyelashes he had. The warm scent of his skin—spicy male mixed with the smell of lye soap—enveloped her.

  It was hardly appropriate for a widowed woman to be standing so close to a partially clad man, yet the evening’s events had shattered the reserve between them. Forcing herself to focus, Heather reached for a small stoppered bottle of vinegar, which would cleanse the wound. It was good to have a purpose, for her belly was fluttering at his nearness.

  “This will sting a little,” she warned him. Not waiting for his response, she removed the cork stopper and took hold of his arm, pulling it horizontal so that she could pour vinegar straight into the wound.

  The gentle hiss between his clenched teeth was the man’s only response, although Heather barely noticed. She was too aware of the warmth and hardness of the flesh of his upper arm underneath her fingertips.

  His muscles were as solid as carven rock.

  Blinking, she forced herself to remain focused on her task. Deliberately, she let go of his arm and reached for a clean scrap of cloth to wipe away the blood that stained the skin around the cut.

  Yet with each passing moment, her awareness of him grew.

  It both flustered and excited her. In the two years since Iain’s departure, she’d kept her distance from men. Frankly, those who frequented The Bogside Tavern weren’t the type to set a woman’s blood aflame.

  But this stranger was different.

  His presence drew her in, as if he were a roaring fire on a cold winter’s night. It took all her will to fight the pull.

  She hadn’t felt such attraction since the beginning of things with Iain—when she’d been so besotted, she’d broken with her family in order to follow the handsome smithy south to Fintry.

  Reaching for a bandage, Heather cleared her throat. “Do ye have a name, stranger?”

  A beat of silence stretched between them before he answered. “Maximus.”

  She inclined her head. “Maximus.” The name wasn’t a Scottish one, which wasn’t surprising. “That’s an odd name.”

  For the first time since she’d entered the chamber, the man smiled. The expression was subtle, the merest lifting of the corners of his mouth. “It’s Latin … it means ‘The greatest’.”

  The man spoke with such unconscious arrogance, such supreme confidence, that Heather grinned. “Is that so?”

  Their gazes fused, and the man’s—Maximus’s—smile widened just a little.

  The stare drew out, and suddenly the room felt stuffy and airless. Heather realized then that she was out of her depth with this enigmatic, oddly-named stranger.

  “I didn’t get a chance to thank ye … downstairs,” she said finally, breaking the weighty silence between them. “I appreciate what ye did … Cory had that coming. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who was pleased to see him get a beating. I have to say that I’ve never seen anyone fight like ye.”

  She really was babbling now, yet she couldn’t help it. Heather was usually unflappable, but this man’s presence unraveled her. Gently, she started to wind the bandage around his upper arm. At the same time, she was painfully aware of how quickly she was breathing. And the heat in her chest and neck was now spreading to her face. Lord preserve her, she was blushing.

  “I take it that isn’t the first time he’s harassed you?” Maximus murmured.

  Heather shook her head, grateful that she could focus on their conversation and not on this man’s lithe, strong body. Her fingertips itched to trace the smooth skin of his sculpted chest, to outline that eagle tattoo.

  She couldn’t believe she was having such lusty thoughts. This man’s nearness was addling her brains. She needed to get out of here before she did something foolish.

  “Aye … but he’s never been so bold,” she replied, avoiding his gaze as she continued to wrap the bandage. “Now that he’s as sure as he can be that I’m a widow, there’s no chance of my husband returning to whip his arse.”

  “So, I had the honor instead.”

  Heather lifted her gaze to his. “Aye … but don’t think Cory Galbraith will ever forget the slight. The men of his family are mean-tempered.”

  Maximus shrugged. “Why did you wed one of them?”

  Heather went still. The question was bold, but just. Indeed, why had she bound herself to Iain? She’d asked herself that enough times over the years not to hesitate over the answer.

  “Because I was young and foolish,” she replied. “And Iain Galbraith was everything my parents warned me about.”

  VI

  LUST UNLEASHED

  MAXIMUS SMILED. HE couldn’t help himself. There was something about this woman that drew him in. She had a bold, saucy air undercut with vulnerability. It enticed him.

  Careful, the voice of good-sense cautioned him. If you bed her, you’ll regret it in the morning.

  Maximus ignored the warning. Heather’s nearness was intoxicating. He forgot his protesting belly; the demands of another part of his body overrode his usual restraint.

  “So, you’re a woman who likes a bit of excitement and danger?” he asked softly. He knew his tone was suggestive, deliberately so, and he liked the way those grey-green eyes darkened, her pupils growing large. He also liked the way her cheeks stained pink, and how her breathing now came in short, sharp bursts. Those lush breasts of hers were close to brushing against his arm as she finished wrapping the bandage.

  What do you think you’re doing? Sanity tried to speak up again, yet he shoved its protest aside. Maximus knew he was playing a foolish game, but he was enjoying himself too much to stop.

  It felt as if he were emerging from a ten year famine, and someone had just laid out a feast before him.

  In this warm chamber, with the comely Heather standing so close, lust barreled into him. He’d just come from spending months in the wilderness, trapping and hunting the animals he skinned for their pelts, and the femininity and softness of the woman before him was a balm to his jaded soul.

  He’d taken to brooding too much of late, and maybe a lusty night would lighten his spirits.

  Heather cleared her throat. She was struggling to cover up her embarrassment.

  “In the past, I longed for excitement,” she admitted. “But since I’m now reduced to serving ale at The Bogside, I’d say I’m a little warier these days.”

  She tied his bandage, straightened up, and was just about to step back from him when Maximus caught her hand.

  “Thank you, Heather … it’s been a long while since someone took such care over me.”

  It was true. One of the many negatives of living forever was that all his wounds healed with the coming of the dawn. He hadn’t needed a healer to tend him, for none of the earthly sicknesses touched him either. He hadn’t had a sniffle, a cough, or a fever since he’d been cursed.

  The blush in her cheeks bloomed further. However, she didn’t take her hand from his. She had long, elegant fingers, and Maximus wound his own through them.

  Her sharp intake of breath filled the chamber, and yet she still didn’t yank her hand away. Instead, her lips parted, and Maximus’s attention fastened upon that plump lower lip—the lip that begged to be bitten.

  Desire arrowed through his groin, a deep ache following.

  Hades take him—he had needs like any other man.

  Still holding Heather’s hand, Maximus rose to his feet and gazed down at her. They were standing so close he could feel the warmth of her body. He inhaled the scent of rosemary fr
om her hair.

  A heartbeat later, he reached out and tangled his fingers through those light-brown waves with his free hand, enjoying the weight and softness of the long hair sliding across his skin. And all the while, Heather didn’t move.

  Instead, her eyes hooded.

  She felt this as much as he did—this pull. The moment he’d set eyes on her in that smoky common room below, he’d felt the stirrings of attraction. This woman had a spark—an aliveness—that made it difficult for him to take his eyes off her.

  She was fire; he knew it in his gut.

  And so, sensing that she wouldn’t recoil, Maximus lowered his lips to hers and kissed her.

  Ye shouldn’t be doing this.

  The warning whispered through Heather’s mind before disappearing like smoke caught by the wind. Common sense was trying to prevail, yet lust overrode it.

  She’d never been kissed like this, and she liked it. Iain had always kissed so roughly, but this man was gentle.

  Maximus’s lips were warm, yet firm, as they moved over hers. He tasted faintly of bramble wine: a sweet, heady flavor that made her already racing pulse thunder in her ears. His strong fingers tangled through her hair before spanning the back of her head, drawing her against him. And when his tongue swept her lips open, she was lost.

  Rational thought fled, and she groaned into his mouth, her tongue sliding against his.

  The sound unleashed him.

  He drew her hard against his body, letting go of her hand so that he could grasp her around the waist and pull her against him.

  Heather went pliantly, molding herself against the hard length of his torso and hips. Immediately, she felt the hardness of his rod against her belly.

  Dizziness swept over her, the sensation intensifying when his hand spanned the small of her back possessively, pressing her closer still.

  The kiss deepened, growing hungry now. Maximus’s lips were a brand upon hers, tenderness shifting into something else entirely.