Page 43 of Ensnaring the Dove

Glancing around, Aedan watched a wagon weighed down with sacks of grain, towed by a large ox, make its way toward market square. The farmer, perched up front, whistled merrily to himself as he flicked the reins.

Aedan’s smile widened. Colombia was right—Onnum was a vibrant town. It was a place where a man could make a fresh start.

Of course, if he was staying on here, he’d need to learn a trade. He’d never needed one in the past, for he’d been born a chieftain’s son. However, he was strong and fit, and his years as a slave had taught him several useful skills. He could wield a hammer, use a saw, and had always worked well with wood.

Surely, there were carpenters and builders here in Onnum. Perhaps one of them needed an assistant.

His smile turned rueful then. At six and twenty winters, he was a little old to start out as an apprentice. But he needed to do so if he wanted to step away from his outlaw’s life.

Decision made, Aedan swiveled on his heel and headed back toward the center of the vicus—in search of work.

XVIII. LET HIM GO

MACCUS VIEWED THE sweaty group of warriors gathered before him.

One of them, a huge man with a scowling face, had just finished talking.

Maccus sighed. “So, what you’re saying, Lucon, is that Aedan and the woman led you on a merry dance?”

Lucon’s face flushed. “The crone at Achwig told us they were headed for the mouth of the Tin … but we found no trace of them there.”

“Perhaps she lied to you.”

Lucon pulled a face. “She’s a wise woman … she spoke the truth.”

There was a belligerent edge to the warrior’s voice that irritated Maccus. Lucon had been in a vile temper ever since they’d found him, blood running down his leg, by the transport wagon a few days earlier.

Maccus hadn’t been impressed that his men had wasted precious time trying to rape a Roman noblewoman. They should have just taken her prisoner—should have handed her over to him so he could decide her fate.

Instead, they’d been blinded by lust.

Smoothing his mustache, Maccus rose to his feet. He’d been enjoying a horn of ale by the fire in his makeshift village deep inthe woods when the band he’d sent to track down Aedan and the Roman woman had returned.

They’d been camped here, surrounded by the riches they’d taken from the Caesars, while the dust settled.

Word would have reached the Wall by now that the convoy had been attacked, and their supplies—and pay wagons—seized. The lands south of Onnum would be crawling with patrols. The Romans would be out for blood this time.

But Maccus would wait them out—as he always did—while he planned his next attack.

For there would always be another attack while Maccus drew breath. He wasn’t done punishing those who’d taken his beloved Bree from him. And if he died fighting the Romans, so be it. He’d be reunited with his love in the afterlife, for The Warrior would reward him for his valor.

“I’m disappointed in you, Lucon,” he rumbled.

His words made the warrior’s broad shoulders tense, while the men surrounding them went quiet, all gazes riveted upon the man who was the focus of their leader’s displeasure.

None of them wanted that.

“I will continue the search,” Lucon muttered, his meaty hands clenching into fists at his sides. “I will find the shit-weasel … and when I do, I will gut him … slowly.”

Lucon’s bloodthirsty threat made a few of the men around him murmur in agreement. Indeed, Aedan’s betrayal had outraged them all.

However, Maccus wasn’t focused on the former slave he’d never entirely trusted.

“Aedan’s not important,” Maccus announced, his voice carrying through the trees. “Not when we have struck the Caesars such a heavy blow.”

Surprise rippled over the faces that stared back at him. As much as they respected their leader, they were shocked hewasn’t going to pursue the man who’d betrayed them, who’d killed their own and robbed them of their prize.

Maccus stifled another sigh. Sometimes his warriors lacked vision. He gestured then to the glade they sat in. It was a beautiful spot—hidden far from the Roman roads, and far from their forts—nestled in the mountains that formed a spine between the east and west of Britannia. It rained often up here, and mist wreathed through the trees every morning, yet it was their haven.