“Just a few more minutes, because I don’t get it. I really recognized this place in the photo. I could feel it.”
But now that she was actually here, the view was entirely unfamiliar. Perhaps she’d once looked upon this place rather than actually been inside it? The photo had been a long-range shot from the nearby hill. Maybe that was it.
“Let’s climb up that hill.” She pointed toward the only rise.
He scowled, scanning their surroundings for danger. His broad shoulders were tense, the muscles of his arms in sharp relief. Cadan clearly liked things to go his way, and this wasn’t what he’d have chosen.
“Really, lassie? Isn’t it bad enough we’re out here with only these bloody tiny walls for cover? You want to climb up that hill there, in the open for all to see?”
“Which all? We’re alone here. Come on.” She headed off toward the hill. He’d catch up.
He did. Too soon. She hadn’t made it a few feet before he swept her up in his arms and swung her around to press her against one of the stone walls. His big body was hot against hers while the cold stone pressed into her back.
“Have a care, lassie. I’m this close to swinging you over my shoulder and carrying you back to my home. Doona be charging off like that again. You’ll stay near me.”
Though his tone was harsh, his grip on her arms gradually loosened. As he stared down at her, his dark brows drew together and something fierce flashed in his eyes.
“Either kiss me or let go.” She couldn’t believe she’d said that, but she meant it. He had to make up his damned mind.
He scowled at her, but she almost—almost—thought she saw longing. Then he released her and looked away as if the moment that had passed between them had flown away on the wind, or never existed at all.
Her heart didn’t sink. Not even a little.
“To the hill, lassie.”
She turned from him and headed toward the hill. If she could get to the top and look down—
A small sign caught her attention and made her breath catch in her throat. There, nestled against the western edge of the fort with a bit of bright green grass tufted at the base, was a sign that read Watling Street. In a daze, she walked up to it, the big hill in the distance forgotten. She could vaguely make out the sound of Cadan calling her name, but the buzzing in her ears drowned it out.
Watling Street. How had she not noticed this before from the books?
“The hill, lassie?”
“No, Cadan.” She reached out with a trembling hand to touch the sign. It wasn’t old, just a tourist marker, and one she’d never seen before, but it marked the remnants of a road that was two thousand years old. “You’ve got to see this.”
She looked over to see him striding through the ruins toward her, his big body moving gracefully among the tumbled stones. She caught sight of his eyes when his gaze landed on the sign. Surprise and also something like dread? But it was gone in a flash.
“You recognize Watling Street, don’t you?” She certainly did. Any scholar in her field worth their tweed coat would recognize Watling Street.
“It’s a historic road.”
“Not just any historic road. A Roman road. Scholars think that the last big battle between the Celts and Romans took place near Watling Street.”
There—it flashed across his face again. She was definitely on to something. And he’d definitely been lying.
“A warrior queen led the battle, but she lost.” A chill ran over her skin. “That battle was famous for having women as the last line of defense. They fought with the men.”
She looked around the place with new eyes. She had seen this place, then, but she’d probably never been inside. To go inside as a Celtic woman would have spelled disaster, the kind that she’d now feel if she’d been there. No, she’d probably looked upon it from afar, maybe even from on the hill.
“I was one of those women, Cadan. But which one?”
Chapter 20
Diana trudged up the wide wooden stairs to the second floor of Cadan’s house. They’d just returned from the ruined Roman fort and she was beyond ready to fall into bed. Even the wind had more energy than she did; it roared as it hit the house and dragged along crevices formed by windows and eaves. It would carry a storm, she was almost certain, and that suited her mood perfectly. Maybe it would drown out the chaos in her mind.
She finally had a lead. If she hadn’t been the warrior queen—which she wasn’t, since there was nothing regal or particularly warriorlike about her—she must have been one of the soldier women who’d chosen to make up the last line of defense between the Romans and the Celtic children and homes. She did have that dream about protecting her daughters, after all. She could almost see it. It...fit. A bit like an awkwardly large coat, but it fit.