Come Back to Me (19 page)

DRAGON WOULD HAVE TIME TO PONDER the matter, perhaps the rest of his life. But just then he had the night to get through. His wedding night.

He glanced at Rycca. She looked pale, exhausted, and deeply unhappy. A long sigh escaped him. How could he possibly expect her to lie with him after everything she had been through and given all that lay between them? How could he not? Certainly everyone at Hawkforte would expect it and take it very amiss if the marriage was not properly consummated. To hell with them, he'd worry about that later. Right now, all he wanted was to get Rycca out of the room before her misery became any more apparent.

From Hawk's arms, Krysta met his gaze. She understood at once. With a reassuring smile for her husband, she left him and went to Rycca.

"Come, my dear," she said softly. "It is time for you to retire."

Any doubt Dragon might have had about his noble plan vanished when he saw the sudden look of dread on his bride's face. So too did any doubt about the involvement of Loki, god of mischief. That capricious deity was clearly up to his old tricks. How else to explain how a man who adored women—and who was adored by them— found himself with a bride who faced the marriage bed with less enthusiasm than she would a viper-infested den?

And not because she feared lovemaking. He could not even comfort himself with that excuse for he knew damn well she most certainly did not. No, it was merely her distaste for him now that she knew who he was that explained her antipathy. Loki might be vastly amused; Dragon was anything but. He watched his reluctant bride leave with Krysta, promptly emptied his cup, and held it out to be filled again.

Hawk laughed, partly with relief that Wolscroft and his son were gone, the matter settled without bloodshed, but also with the amusement that the happily wedded man feels for the nervous bridegroom.

"You want to go easy with that," he offered. "Too much wine and even the best of men—" He shrugged.

Dragon took another long swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's the least of my problems." He slumped back down in his chair.

"My son," Father Desmond ventured, "if you are troubled…"

"Prayers for a pagan, good priest?"

"Oh, I pray for everyone," the young man said cheerfully, "and everything, for that matter. The bird in her nest, the child in his bed, God cherishes all."

"Your god should meet my god," Dragon muttered. "At least the mischievous one."

The priest laughed. "They are but one and the same, my lord, for there has ever been but one God. However, if it is any consolation, what seems like divine mischief is always to a good purpose."

"Damned if it is."

"Oh, well, as to damnation, I hardly think that is an issue here. After all, you and the Lady Rycca are pledged to bring peace to both our peoples. The Lord has told us that peacemakers are blessed."

"And that the meek will inherit the Earth. I hardly see that happening."

Hawk took a seat next to Dragon and let his cup be refilled. It was looking to be a long night. "I did not know you were versed in such things."

Dragon shrugged. "Hard not to be. Wolfs had a house priest for years now and he's not even Christian… Wolf, I mean, not the priest. Or at least he hasn't admitted to it but I think it's only a matter of time. Besides, that holy book of yours has good stories."

Hawk laughed. At Father Desmond's puzzled look, he said, "Be advised, priest, if you wish to convert this one, do it with stories. He cannot resist them."

The younger man nodded slowly. "I see… Well, then, what stories interest you the most, my lord? I've always liked the tale of Jonah, myself, but it isn't to everyone's taste. What about Samson, have you heard that one?"

Despite himself, Dragon was caught. He truly could not resist a good tale. "Who was Samson?"

Father Desmond told him. Dragon protested that Delilah wasn't really so bad, she was merely trying to help her own people, which led on to the story of Esther. Dragon had heard that one but not the one about Ruth, which he thought an excellent example of the courage and sacrifice of women. The three men, for inevitably Hawk became involved, argued about Salome, with Dragon insisting she couldn't have possibly been that bad, although not even he could find a good word to say about Jezebel.

At length, Father Desmond exchanged a look with
Hawk, cleared his throat, and said, "My son, your knowledge of Holy Writ is impressive, especially taking into account that you are pagan. And heaven knows, no one likes such discussions more than myself. However, I feel rather guilty having kept you here so long."

Only then did Dragon notice that the wedding guests had either departed or were asleep in their seats. Father Desmond did look as though he could carry on all night, but Hawk had the air of a man who wants to seek his bed or, more likely, his wife.

Pox on him, then. But no, such envy wasn't to be borne. Dragon was genuinely glad of his friend's happiness. He just wished that even a small measure of the same did not seem beyond his own reach.

With the eagerness of a man approaching a battle that is already lost, Dragon rose. He bade both men good night and mounted the steps to his quarters.

RYCCA LAY ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE BED WITH her back toward the door. She had finally settled on that position after tossing and turning for several hours. Several times she had gotten up and paced the floor only to be afraid he would come in suddenly and find her like that. Not for the world did she want him to know that she was discomfited.

Oh, lord, what a polite word! And so utterly wrong. She was terrified, excited, filled with dread and longing all mixed together, bewildered, apprehensive, and… married.

Married.

She didn't want to be married. She wanted to be back at the lodge, lying by the fire, with the freedom to explore his body and discover the possibilities within her own. To be happy for the first time in her life, making choices for herself and determining her own future as much as anyone could.

Free.

Married.

Night and day, black and white, win and lose.

She had lost; she was quite certain of that. Lost the freedom she had tasted so briefly and lost the chance to make a marriage that might actually have brought a measure of happiness. Her stomach twisted as she contemplated the irony of her situation. Had she stayed at home, played the obedient daughter, and acquiesced in her family's plans, she and Dragon might have discovered that they could like each other.

Or might not, really who was to say? And what was the point anyway? Done was done. Surely it was craven and foolhardy to lie in a heap of misery with hot tears trickling into the pillow. Immensely irritated with herself, she sat up and rubbed her cheeks hard.

He wasn't coming, that was obvious by now. He was drinking downstairs with Hawk and the others, or even more likely amusing himself with some appreciative wench. God, that hurt! For a moment she truly lost her breath. Sucking in air, she struck the pillow hard, then froze suddenly at the faint sound of a footfall outside in the passage.

She'd imagined it. Or it was some servant.

Coming closer…

Slowing… hesitating…

The door opened.

Rycca flattened herself under the covers, closed her eyes, and forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply. In and out… in and out… fast asleep, dreaming pleasantly, not a care in the world…

He was very close to the bed and she could feel him looking at her. "Just as well—"

Dragon's muttered words shot through her. Oh, it was, was it? Just as well she was asleep and he didn't have to deal with her.

He sounded weary. Not that she cared, not at all.

He went to the washbasin. She heard splashing, then the rustle of clothes. The covers on the other side of the bed were pulled back. Rycca stiffened as the mattress depressed. Hardly breathing, she waited…

And waited. The bed was huge; several feet of open space lay between them. She could not even feel the warmth of his body. He shifted once, twice, and was still.

Really, the fuss people made over wedding nights. You'd think there was supposed to be something special about them.

At least she wasn't crying again. The distressing tendency she'd shown of late to do so filled her with self-loathing. No more of that. She wouldn't let him or anyone else see how hurt she was, much less the regrets and fears she felt. She would be the perfect picture of Saxon pride, hold her head high and take whatever came her way without flinching.

What she wasn't likely to do was sleep, yet exhaustion slowly crept over her. Weariness drove a wedge into the wheel of worry and stopped it. Lead weights tugged at her eyelids. Twice, she caught herself drifting off. The third time, she did not.

DRAGON WAS NOT SO FORTUNATE. HE LAY awake through the long night, listening to his wife's rhythmic breathing and cursing himself for thrice a fool. His faults were all too easily enumerated. First, he had agreed to marriage with an unknown woman. For the laudable goal of peace, to be sure, but he should have insisted on picking out his own bride. Then he had neglected to arrange to meet her before their wedding. In the privacy of his mind, he acknowledged that as a cowardly act born of his fear of disappointment. And then, worst of all, it had not occurred to him that the copper-haired beauty in flight across the English countryside could be fleeing from
him
. Scant comfort that he was hardly the first man done in by vanity; it hurt all the same.

But then what could he expect? Real life never worked out as it did in stories where everything was brought to a neat conclusion. Real life was messy, uncertain, and capricious. The gods always rolled dice with the fate of humans. Did the one God do the same? He'd been listening to Father Desmond too much. Still, the priest could be persuasive. Could there truly be a purpose to life, something beyond struggle and suffering?

What if God were a skald? What if the world and everything in it was but the tale of a divine storyteller?

His head hurt. Must be from the wine. But he hadn't drunk that much, really.

A story… the miserable bride, the disappointed groom, the pair of them locked in unhappy matrimony for the good of their peoples. It had possibilities. Not very cheerful ones but possibilities all the same.

Things would be better when he got her to Landsende. There, she would be in her own home and have charge over it. Women liked that, he thought. His confident understanding of the fair sex had taken a bit of a dent but all the same, she had to be happy just to be away from the loathsome Lord Wolscroft. In the meanwhile, she needed time to come to terms with the huge change in her life. Hell, so did he.

She wasn't the only one with feelings, after all. His had taken a hard hit too. But he was a man and supposed to conceal any such weakness. Conceal, as well, the fear that still ate at him. She had fled him twice would she do so again?

How not? He had no reason to think her reconciled to their marriage, quite the contrary. Whatever else she was, she was clever and resourceful. He could not be absolutely certain she would not get away—again.

In the dark of night, haunted by such grim thoughts, Dragon found consolation. He had a fleet of ships at the ready. Before his unwilling Saxon bride could don boy's garb, run off a cliff, or plunge into a river, he would have her safely aboard and at sea. Damned if he wouldn't.

He felt better after that and even dozed a little but was up and dressed before dawn's gray ringers peeled night away.

"SO SOON?" KRYSTA ASKED. SHE LOOKED FROM Dragon to Rycca, who sat silently at his side, and frowned. They were at breakfast in the great hall. Everyone else had finished and gone. Casting a quick glance at Hawk, who appeared unperturbed, she said, "I had thought you might linger here a little while longer."

"Ordinarily, I wouldn't hesitate," Dragon said smoothly, "But my people are anxious to meet the Lady Rycca, as are Wolf and Cymbra."

"Of course," Krysta said, "I should have thought of that. Even so, a day or two wouldn't really make a difference, would it?" She looked at the men hopefully. "And it would give Lady Rycca and myself a chance to do something about her wardrobe."

"Wardrobe?" Dragon asked.

"Wardrobe?" Hawk echoed.

"I don't have a wardrobe," Rycca said with honest bewilderment. These were practically the first words she had spoken since the meal began. Having eaten almost nothing in several days, she found herself famished. It seemed not all the dread in the world could occupy her stomach forever, although her appetite might have been helped along by the departure at first light of her father and the other Mercians. That Wolscroft did not think it necessary to bid his daughter farewell was no surprise. Indeed, being spared the sight of him was a rare blessing. All the same, the notion that she might possess such clothes as to constitute an actual
wardrobe
was so bizarre that it caught her in the midst of nibbling on a wedge of cheese.

"My point exactly," Krysta said. "You must have proper clothes." Observing the blank response this evoked in Rycca, who truly could not imagine such a thing, the Lady of Hawkforte turned her attention to Dragon.

"Surely you can see that? How can Rycca possibly be presented to your people if she isn't properly garbed?"

"Well… I never actually thought about—"

"Dragon, I'm surprised at you! You know women so well, how could you have overlooked something so vital?"

"I've been preoccupied?" he suggested wryly.

"You won't find a better selection of fabric than what is available right here. We have the loveliest linens and wools, rare fabrics brought from the fabled lands of the East, everything imaginable."

"Two days," Dragon said. He knew when he was beaten.

Two days. He could keep himself busy that long. Turning to Hawk, he said, "What about a turn on the training field?"

Their chairs scraped as they were pushed back.

Left alone, Rycca looked at the serenely beautiful lady beside her. "I must tell you," she said softly, "I have not the faintest idea what a wardrobe would involve."